


Ichor in My Blood (I am Made of Galaxies)

by dreamtowns



Series: our hope is a weapon [2]
Category: Free!, Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins, Background Relationships, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Multi, Road Trips, energy manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-04-16 02:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14154516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtowns/pseuds/dreamtowns
Summary: Himuro Tatsuya proposed a road trip to Iwatobi after Red Eye, an old acquaintance of Unit Star, informed him of Glutton’s "newly acquired" alive status. Of course, Himuro has another motive behind this impromptu trip: rekindle his relationship with his little brother, Furihata Kouki. As he does so, however, he can’t help but realize that there is something odd about this little seaside town.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its' mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Thanks for all your support in part one! I hope you enjoy!!

“Muro-chin?”

Himuro freezes, one hand on the doorknob, the other enclosed around his bag, and looks up to see Murasakibara blinking sleep-heavy eyes in his direction. The alarm he feels fades into something softer, fonder, at the sight of his boyfriend’s mess of hair. “Go back to sleep, Atsushi,” he says, “I’ll be back soon.”

Murasakibara eyes the bag in his hands. “Where are you going?”

“To visit a friend,” Himuro replies, and smiles, pleasant and sweet.

“Hmm.”

Ever since he was kidnapped with Furihata, Murasakibara has been more suspicious of others, and protective over Himuro. He appreciates it, really, since it makes his stomach do all sorts of warm flips, but he is not the fragile “normal” (a term for those who were not Academy alumni) everyone assumes him to be.

“I’ll be fine,” Himuro assures.

Murasakibara looks at him, eyes steely with thoughts of all the things that could go wrong, and then sighs. “If Muro-chin isn’t here for breakfast, I’m going to eat your portion.”

Himuro chuckles, softly, and says, “I’ll make sure to come back in time, then.”

Before Himuro can take another breath, Murasakibara has crossed the room and leans over him. The kiss they share is chaste, but sweet and captivating, and Himuro thinks his knees are going to buckle if Murasakibara keeps kissing him like he is the most precious thing in existence. Unfortunately, Himuro has places to be and people (well…person) to see, so he breaks the kiss, and leaves.

He smiles to himself as he hears Murasakibara’s grumbles.

There are few people on the streets, as it is both early and cold in Tokyo. Winter has yet made way for spring, so Himuro is wrapped in a warm winter coat and scarf. The walk to his destination isn’t long, a good hour possibly, but he’s used to long distances from the demonic training regime courtesy of his coach, Araki Masako.

The air smells faintly of pine trees, peppermint, and chocolate, and his mouth waters at the thought of grabbing a delicious hot chocolate at a café. He shakes his head, however, and enters the neighborhood. It would be called a suburban, probably, except the houses were too far apart. Himuro slings his bag onto his shoulders, and glances down at his phone to make sure he had the correct address and bedroom.

Himuro finds the window in no time, and quickly unlocks it. He shimmies inside, briefly thinking he should tell Furihata to invest in some newer, sturdier locks, and turns to Furihata’s bed. Only, the teen isn’t in his bed. He’s—

Himuro’s breath is knocked out of his lungs, and he crumbles to the ground under the weight of Furihata’s punch to the base of his throat. He chokes, wheezing out a breath, and curls up on the floor. Furihata breathes raggedly, and Himuro sees the tell-tale glint of red underneath the pale moonlight.

“I’s me,” Himuro rasps. “As’al.”

Furihata stares at him, blood sword dripping from his palm. “I almost _killed you_ ,” he says, a little hysterically, and Himuro wheezes out another breath. “What the—how did—you _can’t just_ —,” he stops, flustered and stammering, and settles on: “Himuro!”

The hallway light turns on, frantic footsteps shuffle towards them, and, a half-second later, a man who looks like an older Kise Ryōta stumbles inside, wearing plaid pajamas and holding a well-worn baseball bat. Himuro does not want to know _why_ nor _how_ a baseball bat could look so scuffed.

“What’s going on?” he asks, eyes searching intently for any threats. He stares down at Himuro’s wheezing form. “What.”

Furihata rediscovered the ability to form words. “Himuro, why are you crawling through my window at—at _six in the morning!”_

Himuro wheezes again. He did not miss the heavy hand Furihata wielded when he struck someone. For a boy who looked like a strong wind would shatter him entirely, he knew how to throw a punch.

“Kō,” the man ( _Kise Masayuki,_ his mind supplies) says, still staring at Himuro’s prone form. “Who is this? Do you know this person?”

“I do,” Furihata says, but he sounds as if he wishes he didn’t. “He’s my brother.”

“Ah,” Masayuki replies, still staring. Himuro knows he is trying to remember the last time they’d met, in Furihata’s hospital room. “From, um…Teikō?”

“Yes,” Furihata replies. Himuro wheezes again, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh, get up. You got hit much worse in the Academy, Himuro.”

“Your punches hurt, Furi-chan,” Himuro protests, a hand curling around his throat. “I think I swallowed my lung.”

“What a pity,” Furihata states, blank and monotone.

Himuro pouts at the lack of concern he finds in Furihata’s voice. “So mean, Furi-chan. And after all the trouble I went through to get here.”

Furihata raises an eyebrow. The blood sword loses shape, and becomes lines and drips of blood that slowly, slowly, disappears back inside the scar on Furihata’s palm. Masayuki watches it, enraptured at the impossible sight.

“Is everything okay?” Furihata asks, and his eyes widen. Himuro can practically see the thoughts forming in his mind. “Is Murasakibara alright? Are you alright? What’s going on? Why are you _here_ _—?”_

“Can I speak?” Himuro asks, flatly, at the barrage of questions. He’s still sprawled on the floor, but he’s both too lazy and comfortable to move.

Furihata flushes, but motions for Himuro to continue.

“Did you read that letter I gave you?” Himuro asks, pointing to the mascot of Iwatobi High. “It’s in the beak.”

“No, not yet,” Furihata replies, and then squints his eyes. “Why? What’s in it?”

Himuro stares at him, gauging his emotional state, and says, “Read it.”

Masayuki looks at them, then at the bird, and sighs. “I’m going to go make some tea, and breakfast while we’re at it.”

“Thank you, Masayuki-san,” Furihata says.

Masayuki ruffles his hair, and Himuro smiles at the soft look in his eyes. “No problem, kiddo.”

“Sorry for the extrusion,” Himuro says, bashfully, well-aware of the opened window. “You do need better locks, you know.”

Masayuki stares at him for a moment and then says, flatly, “I have military-grade locks on every door and window in my home.”

“Ah,” Himuro says.

Masayuki chuckles. “It’s good to see you, Himuro-kun. Well, if you boys need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Sunlight drifts inside of Furihata’s room lazily as he reads the letter Himuro painstakingly placed inside of the bird’s beak. It was a pain, prying the thing open with pliers. Clinking sounds float in the air from the kitchen, and Masayuki whistles along to the song being played on the radio. Himuro doesn’t recognize it, but he doesn’t recognize much of anything in Japan anymore.

The letter crumbles in Furihata’s hands. His eyes are hollow. “What does this mean?” he asks, and Himuro would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little terrified of the poison dripping from his little brother’s lips.

“He’s alive,” Himuro says, and sits upright on the floor. “Or, at least, that’s what Red Eye told me.”

“Red Eye?” Furihata says quietly, pensive over the name. After a moment of thought, he blinks. “The informant?”

“The one and only.”

Furihata looks at him. “Red Eye, last I checked, worked for the underground whilst maintaining the façade of being a high school firstie.”

“He does side jobs for those who were in the Academy, here and there,” Himuro shrugs.

Furihata’s jaw tightens, and then he growls out, “Astral.”

Himuro’s spine straightens to perfect posture at the sound of his old name. “There were always rumors of Captains betraying the Academy,” he starts to explain. “Taking whatever kids they could, defying the higher-ups in subtle ways, and—well, you remember Hazuki-sensei?”

“The old swim coach?” Furihata questions.

Himuro nods.

“What about him? He died around the same time as Glutton.”

A sly smile creeps on Himuro’s lips. “That’s what everyone was told.”

Furihata narrows his eyes. “Elaborate.”

“He was a traitor,” Himuro says. “And Red Eye believes Glutton is alive because Hazuki-sensei _is.”_

“What,” Furihata says. “He’s _what.”_

“That’s what I said,” Himuro says, hands flying in the air to demonstrate his feelings on the situation. “I mean, it’s like the dead are crawling out of the woodwork.”

Furihata makes a face, but doesn’t refute the claim. “So, Hazuki-sensei is alive?”

“Who is Hazuki-sensei?” someone asks. It’s a familiar woman, who looks to be in her late twenties, with the shimmery golden hair all Kise’s seem to be blessed with at birth. She blinks at him, and at the opened window. “Um. Did you break into my uncle’s house? At six in the morning?”

“Yes,” Himuro says, unashamed at the accusation.

Furihata rubs a hand over his face. “Satomi-san,” he says, “This is Himuro Tatsuya, my brother. You met him at the hospital, remember?”

Satomi stares at him for a while, and then says, “Your skin looks really soft. What’s your moisturizer?”

“Oh, so you ask virtual strangers but not _me_ , your _brother_?” Kise says, loudly.

Himuro blinks. “Kise?”

Kise grins at him, bright and warm. “Hello, Himurocchi!”

“Kise-kun, what are you doing here?” Furihata asks while Himuro mouths, “Himurocchi,” in dazed confusion.

“I was bored,” Kise says.

Satomi rolls her eyes. “Anyway, what’s going on? Who’s Hazuki?”

Himuro shares a look with Furihata, who then looks back at the crumbled note. He shakes his head, “Look, Himuro, even if Hazuki-sensei was alive, it doesn’t mean Glutton is.”

“I know that,” Himuro says, infinitely patient and gentle, like he is dealing with a ticking bomb. “I still think we should check it out, though.”

“Hazuki-sensei?” Kise mulls over the name, and then brightens. “Hey, wasn’t that the old swim coach at Teikō?”

“Yes,” Furihata says.

“He was also our captain, once upon a time,” Himuro adds.

From the kitchen, Masayuki calls for Satomi, who leaves with a wave. Kise makes himself comfortable on Furihata’s bed, pulling the teen to his side. Furihata huffs at being manhandled, but says nothing. Himuro smiles at them. He knows, from Murasakibara, that Kise had gotten more affectionate with Furihata once the custody papers finalized, and seemed to be relentless in his mission to give Furihata all the physical, platonic affection possible.

Kise hums as he skims over the note. “I didn’t know you were in the Academy, Himurocchi?”

“No one does,” Himuro replies. “I left pretty early.”

Kise raises an eyebrow.

“I almost died in America, back when I was ten,” Himuro offers, and Kise sucks in a breath. “I knew I’d be killed if I went back to the Academy, so I just stayed until news of the Fall reached my ears.”

“I see,” Kise murmurs, and stares at a spot on Furihata’s comforter, distant and pensive. Himuro knows he is thinking of all his friends he had made at the Academy who left for a mission and didn’t return.

After a moment of silence, Himuro says, “So, I was thinking—,”

Furihata groans, loudly, but Himuro ignores him. His idea is perfect.

“A little road trip,” Himuro declares, and grins at Furihata’s aggrieved look, “to the little beach side town of Iwatobi.”

“None of us here can drive,” Furihata points out.

“ _Au contraire_ ,” Himuro says, “I’m eighteen, little brother.”

“Yes, but do you have your license?”

“Yes,” Himuro says.

Furihata stares. “If we’re going to Iwatobi—and this is a big _if_ —we are going to do this _legally.”_

“You’re no fun, Furi-chan,” Himuro sighs, and then protests, “I do have my license for Japan, you know! I passed the test a few weeks ago.”

“What about a car?” Furihata questions. “This is not grand theft auto seven.”

“But it could be,” Himuro smirks.

_“No.”_

Kise snickers at them and says, casually, “I’m pretty sure if you asked, Akashicchi would get you a car.”

Furihata, amusingly, turns pink. “I am not—I won’t—I’m not going to ask him to get me a _car!_ Who do you think I am?”

“Akashi-kun’s sugar baby,” Himuro says, once again, shamelessly.

Furihata holds his face in his hands. “I hate you.”

 “No, you don’t.”

“Anyway,” Furihata says once he’s gathered his wits, “I’m not asking that. We’ll take the train instead.”

Himuro gives him a look, reproachful and displeased. “That’s not a road trip, Furi-chan, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“My sense of adventure doesn’t end up with me behind bars on charges of theft,” Furihata replies dryly.

“That’s one boring sense of adventure, then.”

Furihata and Kise both stare at him.

“I don’t want to know what you got up to in America,” Furihata says, after a moment. “I do not.”

“What do you mean?” Himuro smiles. “I was an _angel_.”

Furihata snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

“So,” Kise says, “why are we going to Iwatobi? Wait, where is that?”

“It’s in the—wait,” Himuro pauses, and narrows his eyes. “We?”

Kise gives them a blinding smile. “I’m coming along, of course.”

“Um, Kise-kun?” Furihata says, and looks uneasy at the unexpected conflict. “Um. I think this should just be Star business, you know?”

Kise pouts. “But what if you need back up?”

“We’ll be fine,” Himuro assures him, though he briefly wonders what he’ll have to do to convince Murasakibara to stay in Tokyo. “We know how to handle ourselves, especially Furi-chan.”

Furihata looks resigned at the nickname. “You’re not going to call me anything else, are you?”

“Nope,” Himuro says.

Furihata sighs.  

“I really think you should bring one of us Miracles,” Kise continues, “and, at least, tell one of the adults about this plan.”

“I’m not going to leave Masayuki-san wondering where I’ve gone,” Furihata says, a soft reprimand at the assumption. Himuro hides his smirk at Kise’s chastised, kicked-puppy expression. “But this is still—you can’t—,” Furihata stops, struggling to express his thoughts.

“Ah, I see,” Kise says, smiling a little sadly. “I understand, I won’t go and neither will the other Miracles,” he pauses, and then sternly looks at Furihata and Himuro, who is amused at the fact that his junior is scolding him, “but if something happens, you let us know, okay?”

Furihata pats his hand. “We will, Kise-kun.”

Kise hums, satisfied, before he perks up. “Ah, Masayukicchi is calling me! Be right back!”

Then, a second later, Masayuki yells, “Ryōta! Come here for a sec!”

Kise seemingly glides out of Furihata’s bedroom, and Himuro quirks an eyebrow at his departure. He looks at Furihata and says, “Mind reader?”

Furihata nods, solemnly. “Mind reader.”

*

When Astral turned ten-years-old, he faked his death. Well, no. That is a half-truth, and a half-lie. He and Tamer were dying, wrapped around one another as if that would stop the bleeding, cease the all-encompassing _hurt_ , when they were saved by a woman wearing a kimono, leather jacket, and crocs. (Even now, a few years later, Himuro still didn’t understand the reason behind Alex’s dress). She dressed their wounds, respected their decision to stay away from any hospital, and gave them sanctuary.

“I’m not going to let two babies die on my watch,” she had told them when he asked why she was doing this to two strangers. “Not now, not _ever_.”

There was more to that little story, Astral had seen it in her eyes, but he had not earned the right to her past just yet. They stayed in her home for three weeks before they healed, and Astral had told Tamer to go back to Teikō and tell them of his death. Tamer stared at him for a while, then, eyes deliberately blank, before he agreed, and disappeared before the sun rose.

He would not see his friend until the Fall of Teikō Academy.

*

Masayuki stares at them over breakfast, when Kise, obliviously (Himuro will bet on Murasakibara’s limited edition maibo that Kise deliberately informed Masayuki of their road trip), brought up their road trip plans. “I don’t know,” he says, after a moment, “I mean, it could be dangerous.”

Himuro stares at him, and Furihata raises an eyebrow.

Masayuki sighs. “Alright, alright, I know I’m just being overprotective, but—what about school? Himuro-kun, don’t you have classes at Yōsen?”

“We’re on break for another two weeks,” Himuro replies.

(it’s really one week, but what Masayuki doesn’t know won’t kill him)

“And Seirin is on break as well,” Furihata replies. “Something with the water pipes, remember?”

“Right,” Masayuki says. It is obvious he is trying to think of ways to stop their road trip from commencing.

Then, Sachiko swallows her toast and exclaims, “I want to come!”

“No,” choruses around the table. Himuro watches in amusement, nibbling on his own piece of toast, as Sachiko wilts.

“Why not?” she asks, petulant. “I’m on break, too.”

“It could be _dangerous,”_ Masayuki repeats, stressing on the last word. “At least, I know Kō and Himuro-kun could handle themselves if anything were to happen, but you won’t.”

“Why?” Sachiko challenges, her voice and expression dangerous. Himuro wisely thinks that they should all tread carefully. “Is it because I’m a _girl?”_

Masayuki sputters. “What the—no!”

“You have no training in self-defense, Sachikocchi,” Kise tells her, very gently.

“Satomi-nee-san gave me some lessons,” Sachiko says, hotly, and Satomi nods, verifying her claim, “and so did some of the senpai’s in the archery and dance club. I know my way around a knife!”

“You _what!”_

Himuro sips at his tea. Ah, how he loves family drama and passionate reveals. Overhearing his thoughts, Kise’s lips twitch in amusement. Furihata elbows him discreetly, already guessing where his thoughts lead.

“Who taught you that?” Masayuki asks, almost breathing fire, at the thought of his only child being up close and personal with sharp objects. _“Who?”_

“It’s not important,” Sachiko says.

“Not impor—it is important,” Masayuki replies. “Sachiko.”

Sachiko shoves another piece of toast in her mouth.

“Oh, come off it, Masa-jii-san,” Satomi says, rolling her eyes at the overprotective display. “I was the one who taught her.”

Masayuki side-eyes his niece, and mutters underneath his breath. Satomi grins and, under the table, high-fives her cousin.

“Regardless,” Masayuki says, in a tone of finality. “You won’t be going, Sachiko. That’s final.”

Sachiko pouts, but doesn’t protest her father’s decision anymore. She knows when to pick her battles, and she knows this is one she will lose.

“Where is Iwatobi, anyway?” Masayuki questions. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s near Iwami,” Himuro replies. “In Tottori.”

Satomi’s eyes widen. “That’s eight hours away, by car!”

“I’ve driven long distances before,” Himuro assures the two worried adults. “Both by myself and with someone else.”

Masayuki hums, thinking over the options, before he says, “I would like hourly updates, Kō. If you’re too busy, and you don’t think you’d be able to text me, just let me know, okay?”

Furihata smiles. “Of course, Masayuki-san.”

“Thank you,” Himuro says, earnest and genuine. He understands the man doesn’t completely understand just what this will mean to him and Furihata. When Tamer messaged him the news, he couldn’t believe it. He refused to, and his denial only bit him in the ass when he least expected it.

Himuro, nonetheless, doesn’t like speaking of the days that followed his brother’s deaths.

Kise looks at him from the corner of his eye, and looks very, very sad at the thoughts in Himuro’s mind. Himuro ignores it.

Before he leaves to go back to Murasakibara’s place, since he knew he and his family would get worried over his absence, he gives Furihata a hug. His little brother is slightly tense in his grip, but relaxes after a minute of contact. It has been too long, he knows, since Himuro has hugged anyone that wasn’t his boyfriend.

“I’ll text you the details,” Himuro says as they let go of one another. “Pack for about a week.”

“Alright,” Furihata says. “Walk safe.”

Himuro smiles. “No worries.”

*

Alex introduced Astral to her childhood friend three months into his permanent stay in her spare bedroom. “It’s okay if you’re scared, Astral,” she said, patient and calm, as she attempted to coax him out of the bathroom. “I trust him. He won’t hurt you.”

 _They all say that,_ Astral thought. _And they all lie._

To Alex, he stayed silent, and curled up in the bathtub. Alex’s sigh echoed and spilled out onto the street. The man—Himuro Naoki—understood his hesitance and fear over his sudden presence. “I deal with many abused children in my career, Alex,” the man explained, and Astral, with his heightened hearing, heard everything. His voice reminded Astral of snowy days at the Academy, warm nights curled around his brothers, of Glutton’s laughter ringing down the hall. He swallowed.

“This will take time and patience,” Naoki continued.

“I know,” Alex sighed. “It’s just—it’s hard, you know? Seeing him like that. I seriously want to hunt his family down, and strangle them.”

Alex, and, apparently, Naoki, were under the impression that he had run away from an abusive family. He had done nothing to dissuade them from that notion. As they started discussing the latest of the basketball season, Astral slowly crept out of the bathroom. The man reminded Himuro of home, of a place he can never return to, and he wanted to know what he looked like.

He caught Astral’s gaze, as he poked his head around the corner, and smiled welcomingly. “Hello, Astral-kun,” he said, in clear Japanese. Alex still struggled with certain phrases. “I’m Himuro Naoki.”

Astral stared at the man for a while, noting his almost otherworldly prettiness, and stayed quiet. Both adults took his reaction in stride, and managed to coax him into the living room where a movie played on the screen quietly.

Naoki looked startlingly similar to Astral. They shared the same slant in their eyes, and the same mole, and the same sharp cheekbones, and the slim build. Alex did not speak of those similarities, and neither did Naoki. Astral, nonetheless, couldn’t help but remember what his mother once told him, before she died. 

 _There is something you should know, before it’s too late,_ she had murmured into his ear, when he was half-asleep. _I have a brother in America. His name is_ _—_

“Himuro-san,” he began, hesitant and shy as they looked at him. “Do you have a sister?”

The rest, as it is commonly written, was history.

*

“Atsushi,” Himuro croons when he enters his boyfriend’s room after chatting with his family downstairs. The teen is rolled up in blankets on his bed, an irritable scowl on his lips. “What’s with that look?”

Murasakibara sniffs. “Muro-chin wasn’t here for breakfast.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. He expected to have a quick breakfast with Furihata’s family, and then leave, but Masayuki pulled him into another conversation about his past when Sachiko pouted her way to her bedroom.

Of course, Himuro didn’t disclose everything that had happened, but he gave the man the general gist of information. Furihata trusts and respects Kise Masayuki, and Himuro does respect the man. He watched the footage of Teikō’s Fall, watched the man bravely storm the halls with his squad, and take a bullet meant for a boy barely older than ten, but he does not trust him entirely.

“It’s okay,” Murasakibara says, and pulls Himuro onto the bed as he moves closer. Himuro happily cuddles with his boyfriend at the quiet offer. “Where’d you go?”

“I visited my little brother,” Himuro replies.

“Kaga-chin?”

“No,” Himuro shakes his head. “Furihata.”

“Furi-chin?” Murasakibara frowns, and then blinks in realization. “Ah. You were in Unit Star, too, Muro-chin?”

“Yes,” Himuro says, and smiles at Murasakibara’s easy acceptance. “But I ran away when I was ten,” he elaborates once he sees Murasakibara’s curiosity, “and I, obviously, didn’t return until after the Fall, when I transferred to Yōsen.”

Murasakibara hums.

They stay curled around one another for a while, and Himuro finds himself drifting in and out of sleep, comfortable against Murasakibara’s warmth. His beeping phone, however, pulls him out of his comfort, and he scowls down at the message.

_From: Red Eye_

_You need a car, right? For that “road trip” you’re doing w Harbinger. Well, Melon is in Shinjuku rn, and she says she can sell you her own car since she doesn’t need it anymore. Her # is below._

Himuro blinks at the message and sends back an affirmative reply. Before he burrows himself back against Murasakibara’s side, he sends a quick message to Melon, a 23-year-old alumnus who worked at her families’ automobile shop, asking for more details about the car. She replies promptly, attaching pictures of the car she no longer needs.

“Eh? Muro-chin, you’re buying a car?” Murasakibara props his head atop Himuro’s, and blatantly reads the text. “Why?”

“I’m going somewhere with Furi-chan,” he replies, “and we need a car for it.”

“Where are you going?” Murasakibara asks, innocently, but Himuro hears the underlying intent and hopes this conversation won’t go badly.

“Red Eye, from the Academy, has information that a Unit member of ours might be alive,” Himuro explains calmly. “Furi-chan and I are going to go investigate.”

“Hmm…does Muro-chin want me to come too?”

Himuro swallows and shakes his head. Murasakibara has seen him at various highs and lows over the year, even more when they started dating, but this is a low Himuro is terrified to let his significant other witness. If Glutton is truly dead—

Murasakibara pats his head. “That’s okay, Muro-chin. Just be safe, okay?”

“I will,” Himuro says, and neither comment on the way his voice quivers.  

*

When he had officially stayed in America for a year (a year without his brothers, a year without the Academy’s rules and regulations and tests and—), Naoki and Alex gained split custody of him.  Astral didn’t care for the decision and went about his days as silent as a ghost. They decided to have him homeschooled, and Naoki hired reputable tutors from around the world for a rounded education.

Alex introduced him to basketball on his eleventh birthday. There was no celebration (Astral had not told them the significance of the day), and Astral went about his routine attendings the lessons he had that morning. Alex pulled him out of Naoki’s massive library and put a basketball in his hands, when his French tutor left.

Astral knew the basics from gym days back in the Academy, but he had never played the game on a serious level. “Give it a try,” Alex said, almost begging, at the sight of Himuro’s apathetic gaze. “Please?”

She took him to a nearby street court, and, thirty minutes into the game, Astral found that he was having fun. There had been a dark cloud hovering over his head when he woke, realizing he would never be woken up by his Glutton leaping onto his bed with a battle cry, realizing he would never share his mochi with Harbinger. He realized a lot of things that morning, and it did nothing but sour his mood.

“There’s that beautiful smile of yours,” Alex grinned.

Himuro frowned and ignored her soft look. Alex and Naoki were strange adults. They cared. No one was supposed to care for someone like him.

“Hey,” a voice called, “can I play?”

They turned to see a boy around Himuro’s age shuffle onto the court, a basketball in his hands as well. Alex smiled welcomingly, but the boy blanched at Astral’s dark scowl.

“Sure, you can,” Alex chirped, and ruffled Himuro’s hair. “Ignore this one. He won’t do any harm.”

 _That’s what you think_ , Himuro thought calmly.

“I’m Taiga,” the boy greeted. “Taiga Kagami. You?”

“Alex Garcia, kiddo,” Alex said, and then nudged Astral, who huffed and stayed silent. “This is Astral.”

“Cool name,” Taiga said.

“I have an idea,” Alex said, too loud for only three people on one court. “Let’s have a game—you two munchkins against me. Let’s see who wins!”

“You’re on, Miss!” Taiga agreed, enthusiastic and vibrant.

Astral almost smiled.

(He didn’t know it yet, but he had made a friend that day.)

*

“So, Furi-chan, are you excited?” Himuro grins, almost sparkling, at Furihata.

Furihata glares at him with enough potency to peel his flesh. “It,” he begins softly, “is _three in the fucking morning, Himuro!”_

“Ooh,” Himuro snickers, nonplussed by the rage, “Cursing so early in the day, Furi-chan? Does your sugar daddy know you have such a potty mouth?”

Furihata’s eye twitches. “I’ll kill you.”

“No, you won’t,” Himuro replies.

Furihata sighs, knowing arguing with him is futile, and slumps against his seat. Himuro checks the traffic and weather one last time, before pulling out of Furihata’s driveway. The car Melon sold to him was new-enough in the market, only a few years old, and purrs underneath him. They cruise through Tokyo’s streets in silence, only the quiet orchestra from the playlist on his phone ruining the quiet. As he slows to another stop, he says, “Hey, can you pass me some of that strawberry flavored pocky?”

“Sure,” Sachiko says, pressing the opened box in his outstretched palm, “Here you go!”

Himuro chews on one and then, as realization dawns on him, almost crashes into the car in front of them.

“HIMURO,” Furihata shrieks, wide awake at the prospect of an untimely, unfortunate death via automobile accident. “WHAT THE—,” he stops, abruptly, and an expression of utter terror unfurls over the bridge of his nose. He whirls around, a blur of movement in the corner of Himuro’s eye, and hisses, “ _Sachiko_ , what are you _doing here?”_

Privately, Himuro ponders on how expressive Furihata has gotten since he has moved in with Kise Masayuki.

Cowed at the expression on her adopted brother’s face, Sachiko says, quietly, as if now understanding the gravity of the situation, “I’m here for the road trip.”

“You’re not—oh, my god,” Furihata says (groans, really), and sinks into his seat. “Masayuki-san is going to hate me.”

“No, he won’t,” Sachiko assures. “I told him I was gonna be at my friends’ for break, since she’s moving to the other side of Japan when the break’s over.”

Himuro stares at her through the rearview mirror and says, “You’ve done something like this before, haven’t you?”

Sachiko smiles, and doesn’t reply.

An undignified noise curls in the back of Furihata’s throat.  

Himuro reaches over and pats his shoulder. “Think of it this way,” he says, brightly, too awake for such an hour, “now it’s a real road trip!”

“Yay,” cheers Sachiko. “This is so exciting!”

Furihata makes another noise, and Himuro can’t help but laugh. Affronted, Furihata flushes and swats his shoulder, and Himuro protests the action. “Hey, don’t hit the driver! Basic Road Trip 101!”

Furihata rolls his eyes.

“Better get comfortable,” Himuro tells them. “We’ll get there at ten, hopefully.”

“You better drive the speed limit,” Furihata says.

“No,” Himuro says, “I’m going to drive at the speed of sound.”

Furihata rolls his eyes again, and Himuro chuckles. He glances at his rearview mirror and sees Sachiko has fallen asleep.

“What are you going to tell Masayuki?” he asks.

“The truth, obviously,” Furihata replies, glancing at the backseat. He sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair. “How did she even get into the backseat without you noticing?”

Himuro sniffs. “What, you think I have super hearing, Furi-chan? She probably slipped in when my back was turned.”

Furihata stares at him for a moment, and then says, “Himuro, you _do_ have super hearing. Everyone in our Unit has.”

“She’s a sneaky one,” Himuro continues, ignoring the statement, and grins. “I _like_ her.”

“Of course, you do,” says Furihata, rolling his eyes. The gesture is fond, however.

They fall silent for a moment, and Himuro pulls onto one of the various highways his GPS directs him to, and Tokyo’s skyline starts to fade behind them. There is a pale light brushing across the sky, hints of the upcoming sunrise, but the moon and stars are still a prominent figure in the sky.

“You came back,” Furihata says, abruptly, and stares at him from the corner of his eye.

Himuro furrows his eyebrows together. “I did.”

“Why?”

Himuro’s mouth dried. “I—when the Fall happened, Tamer called me. He…he told me you were the only one left in Unit Star and I—,” he pauses, gathering his storm of thoughts, and continues, “I couldn’t believe it. I _wouldn’t._ Not until I saw the graves for myself.”

Furihata looks at the bus next to them and, for a while, says nothing. “I’m glad you did come back,” he says finally, “it’s nice…knowing I’m not alone anymore.”

A lump grows in Himuro’s throat. “Yeah…I’m glad I came back too.”

Sachiko snores, quietly disrupting the sliver of tension between them. Himuro and Furihata look at her, amused.

Furihata stretches. “So, tell me about your dad. What’s he like?”

“He’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met,” Himuro replies, a soft smile on his lips, as he gathers his thoughts and memories. “He’s, actually, my uncle on my mother’s side—but I think of him more as a father than as an uncle.”

Furihata hums. “How’d he take you being, y’know, an assassin?”

Himuro snorts. “Well—my reveal, for lack of a better word, was very…dramatic.”

“Really?” Sachiko says, leaning closer to the front. “What happened?”

“Sachiko-chan,” Furihata breathes out, a hand clutched to the front of his shirt. “Please, don’t do that.”

Sachiko giggles. “I’m sorry, Furi-nii.”

“So…what happened?” Furihata asks.

“Someone tried to hurt Taiga,” Himuro says, smooth and sweet, but he knows Furihata can sense the echoes of his bloodlust. “And…let’s just say…the aftermath was quite—bloody.”

Sachiko lowly whistles. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“And…they were okay with it? Your family?” Furihata asks, softly; his words full of a weight Sachiko is oblivious to.

“After I explained about, you know, the Academy,” Himuro replies, “They—well, I’m pretty sure they both realized the extent of my, uh, trauma and everything, but they weren’t freaked out about, um, what I can do.”

Furihata hums.

They fall into silence, and the sun rises above the trees. Himuro slips on his sunglasses, warding his eyes against the glare. The next hour of driving passes by in quiet, and Himuro strolls through the outskirts of the Nagano Prefecture. His classical music slips into alternative rock bands from America, and Furihata quirks an eyebrow at the lyrics and bass.

“What band is this?” he asks.

Sachiko bobs her head to the beat. “I don’t understand what they’re saying, but I like her voice!”

“It’s Paramore,” Himuro replies, switching onto the next lane. “This song’s called _Brick by Boring Brick_.”

“I like them,” Furihata says. “It’s a nice song—different than what I’m used to, but I like it.”

“Hayley Williams is my queen,” Himuro says, blithely, shamelessly, and Furihata and Sachiko snort. Himuro smiles, and the song changes to one from their newest album.

*

Astral never gave names much thought. He had always been Astral, the Hacker of Unit Star, a monster hiding underneath a sweet smile. There were many memories etched into his name—things he never wanted to remember, and things he wanted to immortalize—and his name was a cloak of comfort, a mask to hide his vulnerability.

Astral was a boy with blood on his hands. Corpses trailed Astral’s wake, and he left nothing but destruction and decay wherever he happened to go. Astral was an assassin who thrived and drowned underneath Teikō’s thumb. Blood and grief stained his lungs, and he can’t remember the last time he saw his parents smile. Astral was a beautiful lie, a demonic apparition hiding in human skin.

Astral used his looks to manipulate targets, deceived them with saccharine words, and, before they even realized the danger, his knife would slip nicely into their heart. People were caught up in his innocuous beauty, ensnared by his beguile, and they always, always paid a devastating price.

He was tired, however, exhausted of the blood that stained his steps, of the ghosts that curled around his shoulders. He would sneak into Naoki’s library in the dead of the night, a silent ghost to those still awake, and would look for names that felt right.

He found a name a week after he started his search. It meant wisdom and longevity, according to the translation, and it rolled off his tongue. The words were snug and comfortable. It made Astral think of a boy untouched by his past, a boy who ignored the demons wailing at the soles of his feet. It made him think of hope, and he smiled.

“Astral, can you pass me the rice, please?” Naoki asked over the breakfast table the next morning.

He handed Naoki the bowl of rice, swallowed his toast, and said, quietly, “I’d like for you to call me Tatsuya from now on.”

Alex and Naoki smiled, bright like the sun (like Glutton, like Pitcher, like—). Astral looked down at his plate and ate his eggs.

*

As they reach their fourth hour on the road, Sachiko says, “Go find an exit!”

Himuro raises an eyebrow. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“I have to pee,” Sachiko says, pressing her fists against her knees.

“I told you not to drink all that water,” Furihata says. “We’re, literally, in the middle of nowhere right now, Sachiko-chan!”

Sachiko groans. “I was thirsty, okay? It’s not _my_ fault my bladder is weak.”

Himuro blinks at the statement. “Um, it kind of is?”

“Is not,” Sachiko says.

“Can you wait, like, twenty minutes?” Furihata asks.

Sachiko worries her bottom lip. “I don’t think I can.”

“Pee in a bottle, then,” Himuro suggests.

“WHAT?!” Sachiko shrieks, bright red at the imagery. “THAT’S SO UN—UNSANITARY, AND—,”

“Well, it’s either that,” Himuro interrupts, “or the side of the road.”

“She’s not doing either of those things,” Furihata says, indignant and amused at the same time. “Do you see any exit signs?”

Himuro presses his foot on the gas. “There’s an exit coming up in a few miles.”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Sachiko chants. “I have to _pee!”_

“We know,” Himuro and Furihata say.

Thanks to Himuro’s speed driving, they made it to a rest stop in record time, and, before Himuro could so much as pull into a free spot, Sachiko flies out the car and dashes inside the little gas station. Himuro puts his car in park, shares a look with Furihata, before they burst into laughter.

He rolls down the windows and shuts off his car. “Well,” he says, snorting, “that was an experience.”

Furihata rolls his eyes and steps out of the car to stretch. “Are you sure you need to get gas now?” he asks, eyeing the gas meter. “We’re, like, halfway full. I think.”

“Furi-chan,” Himuro points his wallet in his direction once he gets out of his car. “We’ll be driving for another four hours until we reach Tottori—and who knows how long it’ll take to reach _Iwatobi_.”

Furihata raises his hands. “Well, excuse me for not having been on a road trip before.”

Himuro pays for the gas and starts filling up his car. Furihata leans against the door, squinting down at what looked like a group chat.

“What’s that?” Himuro asks.

Furihata sighs. “Some group chat Takao-kun added me to.”

Himuro raises an eyebrow. “Well. Don’t you sound enthusiastic.”

Furihata snorts. “They’re all nice, I guess, but they talk about memes, and say things I don’t really get because—well, our social media usage was limited and monitored in the Academy, and those in A and B were completely cut off from the Internet most of the time, so I’m pretty lost with what’s going on in this thing.”

“Maybe ask them to explain things?” Himuro says, pressing against the pumps’ handle. “I’m sure someone will explain it to you.”

“I would,” Furihata says, eyebrows pinched together. “But whenever I type anything, the chat goes insane, and—and they’re saying things like their ‘local cryptid has blessed us with his presence’?”

Himuro attempt to swallow his mirth, but it spills out of his lungs regardless of his half-hearted efforts.

 _“Himuro!”_ Furihata sputters, pink sprawling over his nose. “It’s not _funny!”_

“It is,” Himuro refutes before calming himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh but— ‘local cryptid’, what a mood.”

“Mood?” Furihata blinks. “What?”

Himuro waves him off, closing his gas tank door, and Furihata scowls.  As Himuro puts the gas pump back in its place, he pauses, and says, “Hey, don’t you think Sachiko’s taking—,”

“I’m back,” she cheers, arms laden with snacks. “And I’ve brought the good stuff with me!” Furihata eyes the mountain of junk food in her arms with a grimace. “That—that doesn’t look healthy, Sachiko-chan.”

Sachiko dumps her purchases in the back seat and gives her brother a look. “Of course, it isn’t, Furi-nii,” she says as-matter-of-factly, “I’m pretty sure most of those are a direct contribution to high blood pressure.”

Furihata sighs, long and resigned.

Sachiko smiles.

“I really like you,” Himuro states, and Furihata groans at the look he sees. “Can I adopt you? I’m going to adopt you.”

“I don’t think my dad will like that,” Sachiko snorts.

“ _I_ wouldn’t like that,” Furihata says. “Himuro, you’re not adopting my little sister.”

Himuro pouts. “Why not? She’d make a badass protégé.”

“I can be your protégé without the adoption,” Sachiko offers an alternative.

Himuro nods. “I like that idea.”

They share a look with one another, and smile. Furihata groans again, plops onto the passenger seat, and mutters, “What kind of fresh hell was just unleashed into the world?”

“Don’t be so negative, Furi-chan,” Himuro says in a playfully scolding tone as he buckles his seatbelt and turns on the car.

“Yeah, Furi-nii,” Sachiko echoes, “Don’t be so negative! And don’t frown so much, either, you’ll get wrinkles!”

Furihata unwraps a chocolate bar and, looking petulant, eats it as a means of ignoring them. Himuro shares another look with Sachiko as he drives out of the gas station and onto the highway, and they laugh.

Furihata ignores their mirth in favor of looking at the cars they bypassed.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its’ mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! I've put my own little spin on Iwatobi and Nagi no Asukara (A Lull in the Sea) in regards to Samezuka! I recommend that anime, though, it's very sweet! 
> 
> Sorry for taking so long! I just finished my finals, and my first year of college!!

They reach Iwatobi an hour before noon. The town is as beautiful as Red Eye said it was, and they are all stunned to silence.  The sun reflects off the ocean, the homes, and the shops, giving the town a nostalgic, peaceful atmosphere. Himuro rolls down the windows and breathes in the scent of the ocean. If he closes his eyes, he would think he was back in L.A.

After a slow drive throughout a good portion of the town, he parks in front of their hotel, and it’s a cute inn managed by a middle-aged couple. “I’ll go check us in,” Himuro tells them as he grabs his wallet. “Don’t have too much fun while I’m gone.”

“Yes, I’m going to have such a good time watching the dashboard,” Furihata says, monotone yet amused at the same time.

Himuro rolls his eyes, and Sachiko giggles.

The interior of the inn is furbished in a sort of rustic, homey feel. He walks up to the front desk, and smiles the very pretty, pink-haired receptionist who looks around his age. “Hello,” Himuro greets. “I’m here to check in? I made a reservation under Himuro Tatsuya.”

“One moment,” the teen—Shigino Kisumi, according to the nametag—says, fingers clacking against the keyboard. “Ah. Here you are, Himuro-san. May I see your ID?”

Himuro nods and slides the card across the counter. After a moment of inspection, Shigino hands it back with a key.

“Everything is in order, Himuro-san,” Shigino says, a kind smile on his lips. “You’re in room 1-32, which is down that hall,” he points at the hallway to the left of him, “and it’s the first door around the corner. Enjoy your stay at Sunrise Inn!”

“Thank you,” Himuro says, and makes his way to his car.

He couldn’t help but hear the other receptionist nudge Shigino and whisper, _“Oh my god, Kisumi-chan, he was so pretty! Prettier than you! And he smiled! At you!”_

Another quips, _“Maybe he thinks you’re hot?”_

Shigino snorts, but Himuro ignores the conversation and raises an eyebrow at Furihata, who is grimacing down at his phone. “Everything alright?”

“Hmm, I dunno yet,” Furihata murmurs. “Sachiko-chan’s plan has been revealed.”

Himuro winces. “Where’d she go?”

“I’m here,” Sachiko waves from her where she is, curled up on the car floor, ignoring her buzzing phone. “I’m running away from my problems.”

Furihata holds his face in his hands, and there is a muffled, dismayed, “Masayuki-san is going to _kill me.”_

“No,” Sachiko corrects from the floor, gently, “he’s going to kill _me.”_

“He’ll probably kill the both of you,” Himuro tells them, cheerful, and waves the key at them. “Up and at ‘em, my little minions. Let’s get our shit in the room before we begin our investigation.”

Despite the previous air of gloom, Sachiko perks up and bounces out of the car with a duffle bag and a backpack. Furihata shakes his head fondly at her and climbs out the car, stretching, and shoulders his bag.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says.

Himuro grabs his own bags, locks his car, and guides Furihata and Sachiko inside the inn. Sachiko whistles at the décor and little paintings of the seaside, eyes wide with awe. “This place is so _pretty_ , Tatsuya-nii,” she exclaims. “We should’ve come here ages ago!”

Under his breath, Furihata says, “You didn’t even know about this town until yesterday.”

Himuro smothers his amusement, and ruffles Sachiko’s hair. She pouts, glares at him, and wrestles her hair into a messy plait.

Their room is traditional, typical of a Japanese inn. Sachiko dumps her bag on the floor and claims her spot in the room before making her way to the bathroom. Furihata shakes his head at her fondly, setting his own bag down at his feet, and nervously adjusts the bandage on his palm. Himuro finds himself staring at it.

“Does it ever bother you?” he finds himself asking. “Having to wear that all the time?”

Furihata tilts his head, puzzled at the question, before he blinks, glancing down at his palm in realization. His expression goes blank. “Do you know why I must wear this, Himuro?”

Himuro shakes his head.

“All of the blood manipulators—well, there’s only three of us: me, Omen, and Reaper—have a certain area, if you will, on our person that is the…ah…trigger to our weapon,” Furihata explains. “I have a sword; Reaper has a double scythe; Omen prefers a silent death,” Himuro opens his mouth but Furihata shakes his head. “It’s complicated, Omen’s situation. Anyway, this area is represented by a scar, and the blood around it is used to create our weapon of choice. We cover them with bandages because once the scar is exposed to an external environment, it immediately starts to bleed and form our weapon,” Furihata pauses, running his fingers through his hair, “and let me tell you, it’s exhausting having to concentrate every second of the day to stop that initial reaction and formation. It’s just…easier to cover it up until we have a reason to take it off.”

“Ah,” says Himuro.

“That’s so _cool_ ,” Sachiko breathes out from behind him. “Really tragic, now that I think about it, but _cool!”_

Furihata snorts lightly.

“Alright, then,” Himuro says, clapping his hands. “Time to explore.”

Furihata worries his bottom lip, tracing the outline of the scar on his palm. “Are you sure he’s here? Hazuki-sensei, I mean?” he swallows, and adds, “What if Red Eye got the wrong information?”

Himuro quirks an eyebrow at him.

Furihata sighs. “I know, it’s extremely unlikely that he did.”

“Who’s Red Eye?” Sachiko questions, at Himuro’s elbow.

Himuro looks down at her, and smiles.

“No one you will ever need to meet,” Furihata says, fierce and protective.

Sachiko pouts.

*

Three weeks after the Fall, Himuro transferred to Yōsen High. Naoki was skeptical of his reasonings for a transfer to the other side of the country, but Himuro got him to agree easily enough. It was terrifying, sometimes, how he had his uncle wrapped around his finger. Yōsen was a boarding school, and large, and reminiscent of Teikō to the point that he hid in the bathroom for a good hour, calming himself down from a panic attack.

His roommate was Liu Wei, a small forward on the basketball team and a fellow classmate. “What a time to return, huh?” he remarked, scrolling through another article on the Academy. “Kid assassins, torture—makes me wonder what kind of mess is gonna happen now.”

Himuro never replied, only smiled distantly when the boy looked at him. That’s all he did, once he entered Yōsen. He smiled, bright and otherworldly, and had such a gentle, distant mask on his face that students left him alone, staring after him with a wistful gaze. He was mysterious, he was aloof, he was, according to some third year, “out of everyone’s league.” He had been there for only a week before they called him an Ice Prince, the “Idol” of the first years.

Himuro didn’t care. He waited for Red Eye’s reports on the survivors of the Academy, waited to know how many in his Unit were left, waited to see how many bodies he should mourn.

He joined the basketball team, after growing tired of hearing Alex’s nagging, and maintained that distant, ethereal visage. He rarely interacted with the others on the team, but he followed orders and the training regime without complaint, and gave the other members little to complain about that wasn’t revolved around his lack of communication.

Then, he entered his second year of high school, and Murasakibara Atsushi stepped onto the court.

He saw a kindred spirit in the ex-Teikō student. There was no reason to treat him like glass or a bomb about to set off as everyone else did. He observed the first year, gauged his body language when they were around one another, and quietly learned the nuances of his personality within a month. During a break in practice, he noticed Murasakibara scowling down at his empty bag of snacks, and an idea formed in his mind.

The basketball team got the shock of their life when Himuro walked up to Murasakibara, and tilted a candy bar in his direction (it was one of Murasakibara’s favorites), and asked, quietly, “Would you like this? I noticed you’re out of snacks.”

Murasakibara stared at him, a curious gleam in mauve irises.

On the other end of the court, Fukui sputtered, “Himuro can talk? He _actually talked?”_

Murasakibara took a bite out of the offered candy, and said, “Thanks, Muro-chin.”

Himuro smiled, kind and genuine, unlike his other smiles that were full of sharp knives and cold glaciers. His teammates breathed in sharply, suddenly.

“What the fuck,” Liu Wei said, voicing the others’ thoughts.

Araki sighed at their antics before she blew her whistle.

It was, in Himuro’s opinion, the beginning of something beautiful.

*

“I just want to go on one date,” Furihata says as Himuro smiles, sharply, at another unsuspecting, innocent Iwatobi local, and Sachiko gets distracted by another shopping stall. _“One date is all I ask for.”_

“And you’ll get that date,” Himuro replies casually, pleased at the sight of their flush, “as soon as I get my information.”

“You could’ve hacked into the database, you know.”

“Now, where would the fun in that be?”

Furihata sighs.

Sachiko appears at their side, a cinnamon sugar pretzel in her hands. “I love this place,” she insists, “I don’t want to leave.”

“Anyway,” Himuro says, not wanting to contemplate the implications of Sachiko’s statement, and looks at Furihata. “Anything interesting?”

“For the record,” Furihata begins as he frowns, “I still think this is a horrible idea.”

Himuro smiles when Sachiko cheers, “But those are the best of ideas!”

“Mini-me is right,” Himuro says.

“I should have never allowed you two to meet,” Furihata murmurs underneath his breath, and then rolls his eyes at the grins on Himuro and Sachiko’s faces. “Something isn’t right,” he continues in the same low tone to Himuro, careful of being overheard. “I’ve been hearing distorted voices—like someone is speaking underwater.”

Himuro would call bullshit, but, well, he’s seen things in America. An underwater village wouldn’t be too far off the mark. The only thing he can think of is Atlantis, but that was supposedly in the Mediterranean, nowhere near Japan.

“Is there like a myth?” Himuro asks. “Like, for underwater villages?”

Sachiko blinks at them. “Yeah—the town of Samezuka.”

Himuro stops, breathes, and shares a look with Furihata, whose eyes slowly widen with realization. “Furi-chan,” Himuro murmurs once Sachiko has skipped a few feet away from them, “didn’t Unit Galaxy and Unit Gold have a few people from there?”

“Starlight, Silver, and Onyx,” Furihata replies, and then tilts his head in thought. “I wasn’t aware they lived in the _legitimate_ Samezuka—I assumed it was a different town named after the myth.”

Sachiko eats her pretzel, ignorant to their findings, and hums contently.

“Are they…?” Himuro doesn’t want to finish his sentence. He had studied with Silver and Onyx back when he was in the Academy, spent hours hunched over books in the library with them as they argued over English compounds, and Starlight was like a little sister to him. He does not want to comprehend their death.

Furihata shakes his head. “They’re alive—rescued during the Fall.”

Himuro’s shoulders slump with relief, and he can breathe properly once again. Furihata’s phone pings with a message, breaking up the slightly tense silence between them, and as he checks the text, he flushes a bright pink. Himuro grins.

“Oho?” he teases. “Is that your sugar daddy?”

Furihata punches his shoulder, and Himuro wheezes from the pain. “Stop calling him that,” Furihata hisses, but his blush makes him less intimidating.

“So mean, Furi-chan,” Himuro pouts, rubbing his shoulder. “Think of what your sug—.”

A familiar ring tone floats from his phone, interrupting his teasing, and Furihata breathes a sigh of relief as Himuro answers the call with a bright, “Atsushi!”

 _“Muro-chin,”_ Murasakibara says, _“How’s Iwatobi?”_

“It’s really pretty,” Himuro says, and smile, even though Murasakibara couldn’t see him. “And peaceful—you would like it here.”

_“Eh…I dunno. Water and earth don’t mix well, you know.”_

Himuro snorts. “You have a point.”

 _“Well, I’m just checking in,”_ Murasakibara says after a moment of quiet. _“Be safe, okay? Call me if there’s trouble.”_

“I will, don’t worry,” Himuro says. “Love you.”

_“Love you too, Muro-chin.”_

Furihata is looking at him, soft and fond, when he hangs up the phone. Himuro can feel the blush on his cheeks. “Shut up,” he says, and Furihata snickers.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“I’ll tell your sugar da—.”

“He _is not_ my sugar—.”

“Furihata-san?”

Himuro blinks at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered teenager (is his hair _green?_ ). He’s handsome, in that adorable way, and Himuro admits to himself that Murasakibara is, in fact, handsomer. The teen is accompanied by another tall teen, this one with purple? hair, glasses, and wearing an outfit that would get him classified as a “science nerd”. Their other friend has an indifferent look on his face, and is considerably shorter than his companions, but Himuro sees the worry in his stiff shoulders.

Furihata blinks at them before he brightens. “Ah, Makoto-san. How’re you? How’re the twins?”

Makoto smiles. “They’re doing a play for their class, so they’re very excited right now. Oh,” he looks at his friends. “This is Haru-chan, and Rei.”

Rei fixes his glasses. “Pleased to meet you, um…”

“Furihata Kōki,” Furihata says and then motions to Himuro. “This is Himuro Tatsuya.”

Haru stares at them with a piercing gaze when he asks, “Have you seen anyone named Nagisa?”

Himuro shares a puzzled look with Furihata. “No,” he replies. “I’m afraid we haven’t run into anyone with that name.”

Haru sucks his teeth.

“Is everything okay?” Furihata asks Makoto.

“Our friend, Nagisa, has been missing for—well, three days now,” Makoto says and runs his fingers through his hair. “His, ah, parents think he’s run away again, but he isn’t at his normal haunts.”

“He ran away once?” Himuro murmurs.

“He had an…argument with his, um, father,” Makoto replies.

Himuro narrows his eyes at the stutters and nervous, panicked expression on Makoto’s face, but understands it is not his place to question the legitimacy of the story. “We’ll let you know if we’ve heard anything,” he says instead.

Makoto and Rei brighten.

“Thank you very much, Himuro-san,” Rei says and then shakes Himuro’s hand with such professionalism, Himuro wonders if an old man is trapped inside of Rei’s body. “If you don’t mind, why are you two in Iwatobi? We are not the most well-known town outside of the prefecture.”

“Funny you should ask,” Himuro smiles, sweet and innocent, and he feels a deep satisfaction at the sight of the three teens’ catch their breaths. Next to him, Furihata barely resists sighing. “We’re looking for an old friend of ours.”

“Makoto,” Haru says lowly.

Makoto blinks and gives them a polite bow. “I’m sorry, but we really must be going. It was nice seeing you again, Furihata-san, and I hope you find your friend.”

“I hope you find yours,” Furihata says to their fading backs.

 _“I’m telling you,”_ Haru says once he decides they’re a safe distance away. Not that it would do any good, for Himuro and Furihata have heightened hearing. _“All we need to do is go down to Samezuka and_ _—.”_

 _“Haru-senpai,”_ yelps Rei, scandalized.

 _“You know we can’t do that Haru-chan,”_ Makoto scolds. Haru huffs and murmurs, _“drop the -chan,”_ but Makoto continues, _“It’s too dangerous with the Organization, and_ _—and you-know-who. We can’t go to Samezuka right now; we’ll put everyone in danger.”_

Haru sucks his teeth again.

Himuro’s grin sharpens when he looks at Furihata. “Looks like this town has gotten a lot more interest—,”

He stops himself.

A look of unbridled terror unfurls across the bridge of Furihata’s nose as they realize what’s missing, what they don’t hear anymore, what’s _not there_.

“Furi-chan,” Himuro whispers, almost drowned out by the hum of the crowd. There is no flash of golden hair. There is no familiar shimmer underneath the afternoon sun.

“Where is Sachiko-chan?”

*

Once the basketball team witnessed Himuro speak to Murasakibara (and _only_ Murasakibara), Himuro noticed their increased attempts in conversation. Himuro indulged their efforts like a mother would indulge her children’s mischievous tendencies. He replied monosyllabically, and he kept his distance, a glacier smile on his lips. He wondered, though, when they would stop treating him like he was a prize, a celestial being, and treat him like the human that he was.

 “But why won’t he talk to us,” Fukui Kensuke wailed when he assumed Himuro was out of hearing range, listening to Coach Masako give him pointers. “He talks to _you_ , freshman!”

Murasakibara quirked an eyebrow at his upperclassmen and munched on another pocky stick. “Muro-chin talks to me because I don’t place him on a pedestal,” Murasakibara said as-matter-of-factly to the rest of the team. “And I don’t look at him like he’s this ethereal being.”

“We don’t do that,” Liu Wei protested.

“You do,” Murasakibara said flatly.

The rest of the first-string members fell silent, and Murasakibara, content that he had enlightened them, continued to munch on his snack.

“We really do that?” Okamura Kenichi, their captain, whispered, eyes downcast at the realization of his actions. “I didn’t realize.”

Murasakibara hummed. “No one really notices that they do it.”

“How’d you?” Okamura questioned, and then amended, at the raised eyebrow he saw, “How’d you notice?”

Murasakibara snorted lowly. “Muro-chin and I aren’t that different, in how Yōsen treats us. The only difference is that Muro-chin is revered like a god, and I’m looked upon as a demon.”

Liu Wei swallowed. “B-Because of Teikō?” 

“Maybe,” Murasakibara hummed. “It could be because of my personality and height, but I don’t care what anyone thinks of me.”

Okamura furrowed his eyebrows together and grew taller in a protective fury that reminded Murasakibara of Aomine. “Are they bullying you?”

“No,” Murasakibara replied, though he was certain deliberate ostracization could be considered bullying. “They’re too scared of me to do that.”

After that conversation, Himuro noticed the team began including him in conversations and activities that didn’t revolve around school or their club, and their uncomfortably worshipful gazes faded from their expressions whenever he was in their presence. Slowly, Himuro relaxed in their presence and felt like he was a part of the team instead of some ghost looking in from the outside.

“Muro-chin,” Murasakibara spoke during lunch, in their little spot on the rooftop of the second-year building.

Himuro looked up from his bento and gave him a curious hum.

“Muro-chin is a lot happier now,” Murasakibara stated, in an almost innocent tone, licking sauce off his fingers.

Himuro blinked and a soft smile grew on his lips after a contemplative moment. “Yeah,” Himuro murmured. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

*

In a vice of desperation, they go back to the hotel.

Furihata storms to their room, the hope of Sachiko being there snapping at his heels, and Himuro turns to the front desk. His smile is cold, and Kisumi blinks at the sight of it.

“Is everything alright?” the pink-haired teen questions.

Himuro takes a deep breath to steady himself. “Have you seen the little blonde girl who came in with us?”

Kisumi shakes his head, expression grim and understanding. “No, I’m sorry,” he said, and his hand inched towards the phone next to him. “I can inform the police to look out for her, if you’d like?”

“Thank you,” Himuro murmurs as he makes his way to their room. While he preferred to keep the local police uninvolved, as Himuro is certain he, or at least Furihata, will do something illegal, the more eyes looking for Sachiko, the better.

The first thing Himuro notices, upon entering their room, is the dark, murderous miasma wrapping around Furihata, who stands near the window. It’s partially opened, and Himuro straightens, understanding that someone had broken in during their absence. Himuro closes the door behind him, and swallows at the sight of Furihata’s carefully blank eyes.

“Furi-chan?”

There is a crumpled note in Furihata’s hands.

“What’s—?” Himuro stops himself, noticing the bloodthirsty aura. If it were any more potent, the paint on the walls would start peeling. Himuro swallows. This is not Furihata Kōki. This is the Harbinger of Death; one of the most dangerous assassins Teikō Academy has created.  “Harbinger? What’s wrong?”

“They took her,” Harbinger says after a moment. Pure vitriol drips off his lips when he rumbles, _“They took Sachiko.”_

“We’ll keep looking,” Himuro says almost immediately. “Whoever it is can’t have gone far.”

Harbinger gives him an unreadable look.

Himuro hopes, for the sake of Iwatobi, Sachiko is unharmed.

They search for an hour, peering into every nook and cranny they could find. Iwatobi residents have not seen a small girl with blonde hair. Sachiko was nowhere to be found. Furihata grows blanker, emptier each minute that passes, and Himuro knows Iwatobi has a limited time left before Harbinger crawls out, and bathes the town in red. They pause in an alleyway, stopping briefly to catch their bearings, and Himuro leans against the wall.

“We’ll find her,” he says, partly to distract Furihata from a murderous rage and partly to calm himself down. “Whoever took her, they couldn’t have gone— _what the f_ _—?”_

The wall behind him fades to nonexistence, and he tumbles through an opening. Furihata lunges forward, falling through the opening as well, and the world is enveloped in darkness briefly before Himuro falls into what feels like—water?

*

If anyone were to ask Himuro when his relationship with Murasakibara went from a platonic, somewhat sexually-charged friendship to a fluffy, toe-curling romance, Himuro wouldn’t be able to give them an answer. As the weeks progressed, Himuro found a niche in Yōsen’s basketball club, and he found mutual companionship in Murasakibara.

The romance crept upon Himuro without him noticing. Soon, he found himself taking note of the handsome angles and lines of Murasakibara’s face. He noticed the little smirk on the Center’s lips whenever he overheard Himuro’s muttered, sarcastic quips over his classmate’s borderline sycophantic behavior. He noticed Murasakibara’s muscled form on the court, how his presence was a protective, unmovable force most earth manipulators possessed.

Himuro was unaware his feelings were reciprocated and attempted to smother the flame he held for his friend as he didn’t want to ruin what they had for the sake of a crush.

And then, during their cultural festival, as they lounged on the rooftop for their lunch break, something Himuro only dared to dream of happened.

Himuro discussed the latest murder mystery novel he’d been reading, absentmindedly waving around a nutrient bar in his hands to emphasize his points, and Murasakibara listened to him as he munched on his food, humming and nodding during the appropriate places. As Himuro trailed off, he noticed Murasakibara staring at him.

“Oh, do you want a bite?” he asked, offering the nutrient bar in his hand. “It isn’t as sweet as you’re used to, but it’s—.”

Murasakibara kissed him, swallowing his words and making his brain short-circuit whilst he did so. “Muro-chin is sweet enough,” was what the teen declared afterwards.

Their romantic relationship started soon after the first kiss.

The only thing that changed was that, out of the public eye, they became more affectionate with one another. Himuro, despite his looks, hadn’t been in a relationship with anyone, and it was the same with Murasakibara, so they decided to go at a pace they were both comfortable with.

After one steamy make-out session one afternoon, Murasakibara noticed one of the things Himuro had to hide for most of his life.

“Muro-chin,” came the soft, almost shaky, inquiry. Himuro, more preoccupied with the fact that Murasakibara’s hand literally wrapped around his waist, hummed in response. “Who did that?”

Himuro paused, his mind a mess at Murasakibara’s touch, and blinked slowly. “What?”

Murasakibara traced one of the scars on his stomach with gentle fingers. “That. _Who did that?”_

At the rumble in his boyfriends’ chest, Himuro gathered his wits and looked at where Murasakibara was pointing. The scar was an angry, jagged line—this one, Himuro received from a session in the med bay when he was four; another one of Teikō’s “upgrades” for air manipulation. Himuro swallowed at the sight of it.

“Um.”

“You have a lot of scars, Muro-chin,” Murasakibara stated quietly. “I never asked about them, because I didn’t want to trouble you, but—,” he stopped and swallowed, resting his head against the crook of Himuro’s neck, and continued, “Muro-chin, was it your—your family?”

“No,” Himuro replied in a surprisingly firm tone. “No, they would never.”

“Then who?” came the whisper. “Who did that?”

Himuro smiled, almost bitterly, and moved to hold Murasakibara’s head in his hands. He stared in Murasakibara’s mauve irises, gathered his thoughts, and murmured, “You are not the only one haunted by Teikō, Atsushi.”

Murasakibara’s eyes darkened in realization and, almost reverently, he said, “Muro-chin attended Teikō?”

Himuro nodded and squeaked in surprise when he was embraced firmly. They stayed in that position for a while, Himuro curled against Murasakibara, perched on Murasakibara’s bed (his roommate was out of town for a funeral), and basked in each other’s comfort.

“How long?” Murasakibara murmured against Himuro’s hair.

Himuro almost laughed. “Atsushi,” he said, quietly, somberly, “I was born there.”

Murasakibara’s touch was, in a way, gentle and protective for the rest of the night.

Out of respect for their teammate, the team seldom discussed Murasakibara’s tenure in Teikō unless the teen in question brought it up first. Simply by sharing a locker room with him, they understood the depth of the scars scattered along his skin, and they understood the struggles Murasakibara had endured. By the middle of Himuro’s second year, he had settled into a routine that consisted of him painstakingly taking care to hide the scars on his body.

Himuro wasn’t sure if he wanted his team to know about his past, about the ghosts wailing at the soles of his feet. There were certain walls he made impenetrable ever since Alex Garcia had found him, dying, on her doorstep. No one questioned his secrecy, the way he would be the first to change and leave without so much as a goodbye.

“What the FUCK, Himuro?” Fukui shrieked at the sight of Himuro’s torso.

Of course, Himuro thought to himself, peace does not last long.

The rest of the first string turned and a cascade of explosive reactions echoed throughout the locker room at the sight of Himuro’s various scars. “Holy shit,” Liu Wei whispered, his eyes catching sight of the deep scar that swooped from the curve of Himuro’s neck to the base of his spine. “I think these’re worse than _Murasakibara’s.”_

“Who did that to you?” Okamura questioned in all his protective fury. “WHO?”

Himuro continued to get dressed. “Too many to count.”

A hush swept over his team.

Murasakibara sighed and said, simply, “Muro-chin was in the Academy, too.”

The team, predictably, reacted to the news with explosive fervor.  

Himuro sighed and mourned the lack of privacy.

*

Himuro is underwater. There is an underwater town, an almost exact replica of Iwatobi, a mixture of nostalgia and beauty in cobblestone streets, and he is in it.

He is underwater, and he is breathing as though he were on land. A school of fish swim by his knee, and he blinks, dumbfounded, at Furihata, who looks perpetually done with the entire thing already. He snorts at his little brother’s deadpan look.

“Well,” Furihata says, voice perfectly clear. If Himuro were anyone else, he would’ve fainted. “Looks like we’re headed for that house atop the hill.”

Himuro looks at the house. It’s entire structure and appearance screams traditional Japanese architecture, and Himuro feels a little nostalgic as he looks at the delicate arcs and sturdy wood, at the splashes of warm colors.

“Let’s hope they don’t shoot first, and ask questions later,” Himuro says as he starts to walk up the path leading to the house.

He ignores Furihata’s quiet: “Can bullets even travel through water? I don’t think guns are waterproof.”

The house gives off a peaceful, quiet air, but Himuro senses a gentle, protective power humming around him as he knocks on the front door. A few minutes pass before the door slides open, and they’re face-to-face with a beautiful woman who looks very similar to Makoto.

“Hello,” the woman greets, blinking at their faces. “I don’t think I’ve seen you two before.”

“We’re tourists, ma’am,” Himuro says, smiling that sweet smile few people can resist. The woman softens considerably. “I’m afraid we tumbled through one of your, ah, entrances, and now we’re lost.”

“Oh, dear, I’ve been telling Yuzuru we need to keep a better eye on those,” the woman mutters to herself, palm pressed against her cheek, before she shakes her head and smiles at them, warm and sincere. “Please, come in. Come in. You two must be starving—oh! I am Tachibana Michiyo.”

“Himuro Tatsuya,” Himuro greets and then motions to Furihata. “This is Furihata Kōki.”

Michiyo narrows her eyes at Furihata, tilting her head in thought. “Furihata…? Forgive me if I overstep any boundaries, but, you wouldn’t happen to be the boy who helped my little Ren and Ran in that horrible place, would you?”

Furihata’s eyes crinkle with his smile. “Oh, you’re their mother? It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Her eyes water, and she sniffles. Himuro doesn’t know how she is able to cry underwater. “I don’t know if I could ever repay you for what you’ve done,” she says, her voice heavy with emotion. She gathers herself together, however, and ushers them inside. “I’ll go put on some tea.”

Himuro blinks and follows her to the living room where a man who could be Makoto’s twin brother sits in an armchair, and there is a pair of female twins sprawled on the couch, and a blonde woman sitting on the other armchair reside.

“This is Himuro-chan and Furihata-chan,” Michiyo introduces. “They got lost, so I’m going to make them some snacks.”

The man looks up from his newspaper. “Furihata?”

Furihata nods. “Yes…um…?”

“Tachibana Hiroto,” the man greets. “You were the boy who—?”

He’s interrupted by two children chasing each other, a twin boy and girl. _Ren and Ran?_ Himuro thinks to himself but his silent question is answered when they sense Furihata’s presence and tackle him, screaming, “Furi-nii!”

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here…” chants the boy.

“Did you come visit?” the girl questions. “How’d you know we were here?”

Whatever Furihata is about to say is swallowed by the appearance of another man. Himuro’s breath is caught in his throat as he hears the blonde woman greet him (“Izumi-kun, have you found him yet?” “No, Koyuki-chan, I haven’t.”), swallowed by memories of another time, another place, another moment in history.

Astral smiles, bloodthirsty yet benign at the sight of their old captain. “Hello, Hazuki-sensei,” he greets softly.

Hazuki looks up, and the mug in his hand shatters on the ground at the sight of a boy who supposedly died eight years ago. Then, his eyes slide towards Harbinger, still entangled with the twins, and he grows paler. Astral understands what he sees: the Harbinger of Death.

“You—you were both in the Academy?” Michiyo whispers from the hallway, a tray of sweets and mugs in her hands. “You—oh, my…”

“I see you’re all nice and cozy,” Harbinger says in lieu of greeting. Hazuki swallows at the danger he senses, though Astral knows the only reason their old Captain was not dead or writhing on the floor is due to the twins hanging off Harbinger’s shoulders. The teen smiles, sharp and blank and cold, and Hazuki shudders.

“We have,” Astral says, and his eyes gleam, “a few questions for you, Captain.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its' mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> I really apologize for taking so long with this! I had three summer classes that took up most of my time, along with impromptu family reunions, and now I'm back in my dorm. Hope you enjoy this chapter and aren't too mad at me :')

Sachiko was not in Samezuka. Hazuki, however, had strong inkling about who had taken her. “While we call them the Organization, they have another name,” he had said. “They use another name, but it escapes me. I had a few run-ins with them myself, and I suppose they are like the Academy. They were quite interested in Teikō’s philosophy.”

“How predictable of them,” Harbinger had replied. His eyes had not left their old Captain, keeping the blond within sight at all times. Himuro knew that if Hazuki so much as twitched wrong, he would not be breathing for long. “What’s their danger level?”

“S Level,” Hazuki had responded, and the terminology brought about a wave of nostalgia for Himuro before he tensed and shared a look with his brother.

In the Academy, missions had a “danger level,” which allowed them to prepare accordingly. D Level missions were the easiest. B Level missions were a little harder than D Level, but Himuro could still accomplish them in his sleep. A Level missions, however, were a little more harrowing and tense, increasingly difficult in that it resulted in almost a month of preparations. S Level missions, on the other hand, were notoriously deadly and dangerous. Most Units that embarked on S Level missions returned with a few less members than before.

“Can we help?” the twins had questioned.

 _“No_ ,” chorused the rest of the room.

Furihata had hesitated for a moment, and then said, “If you won’t hear from us in an hour, go—.”

“Go to fancy and giant onii-chan,” Ran had finished with a firm nod. Himuro choked on his laugh at the thought of the twins calling Akashi ‘fancy onii-chan’ to his face.

Now, with forty minutes left, Himuro feels like he has searched through half of Iwatobi for the building that housed the Organization. “There’re four abandoned buildings around Iwatobi,” Hazuki had said. “I don’t know which one they’re in, but they’re in one of them.”

Furihata twitches with barely concealed rage and says lowly, “Where _the fuck is this b_ _—?”_

An older teen barrels around the corner and almost crashes into them. “I’m sorry—Harbinger?” He— _Maelstrom. Call me Maelstrom_ —does a doubletake and stares, dumbfounded, at the sight of Furihata. “What are you doing here? In Iwatobi?” he pauses and his eyes widen when they slide over to Himuro. Himuro, who has technically been dead since he was eleven. “What…what’s going on?”

“Maelstrom,” Furihata blinks, “I was unaware you lived here.”

“Technically, I’m underfoot in Samezuka,” Maelstrom replies, a boyish, sheepish smile on his lips, before he shakes his head. “What’s happening? And—And how are _you_ alive?” he asks Himuro.

“It’s a complicated story,” Himuro tells him. “And we’re looking for someone.”

“Aren’t we all,” Mikoshiba snorts, slightly bitter. Himuro shares a look with Furihata. “Ah, well, the name’s Mikoshiba Seijūrō…haven’t been called Maelstrom in a while, you know? Anyway, are you guys looking for Hazuki, your old captain?”

“No,” Furihata replies, “We’re looking for Glutton.”

“Have you seen him?” Himuro asks.

Mikoshiba looks contrite. “No, I’m sorry.”

Furihata tilts his head as he stares at Mikoshiba, an almost unreadable look in his eyes. “What’s up with you?”

“I’m looking for my little brother, Momotarō,” Mikoshiba informs them, and clenches his jaw. “That damned Organization grabbed him when I wasn’t looking and—.”

“We’ll be going to the same place, then,” Furihata says and then he smiles.

Himuro doesn’t blame Mikoshiba for shivering.

*

When Astral was thirteen-years-old, someone attempted to kidnap Taiga. Taiga’s parents were wealthy business partners, and they had company branches in various parts around the world. They had enemies—jealous associates who felt they were scorned, rival CEOs and companies, fired employees who felt they were cheated, and the list went on.

Astral understood on a conceptual level that there would be people hunting for revenge, people who would harm Taiga as a means to get back at his parents. It was why Taiga attended self-defense lessons; why, after a series of intense discussions, Naoki and Alex signed Astral up for some as well, though Astral was more amused at the thought of attending self-defense lessons than be offended. It was why Taiga had two bodyguards who faded into the background, shadowing his every move until they needed to intervene.

Alex and Naoki decided to take them to the movies to celebrate Taiga’s team winning their first game of the season. Considering the weather and the distance, they decided to walk to the movie theatre. It would have been a short walk had a nondescript man not snatched Taiga from Astral’s grip suddenly, bolting toward the van idly waiting down the street without hesitation.

Cries of shock and rage echoed around him, but Astral’s vision narrowed on the silhouette, on Taiga’s face, slack and stunned at what took place.

Astral saw red.

*

On the outskirts of town, there was, of all things, an abandoned grocers’ market. “This has an underground basement-slash-tunnel thingy,” Mikoshiba explains in a hushed voice as settle by an, unsurprisingly, abandoned car for cover. “The tunnel system is destroyed, mostly, but this used to be an old, ah, stakeout place?”

Furihata is unimpressed. “A grocery store?”

“Listen,” Mikoshiba says, slightly offended, “you make do with what you have, okay?”

“Is there a way to enter without getting caught?” Himuro questions; the only entrance he can see is in the front. “Like…a back exit?”

“Yeah, there is one,” Mikoshiba responds, and then tilts his head to the side of the grocer. “And we don’t have to worry about setting off any alarms—they’ve been wired off for almost a decade, now.”

They follow Mikoshiba’s quiet and confident gait, unease and discomfort crawling under their veins. As though precautious, Furihata slowly unravels his bandages and, for a moment, Himuro is enthralled at the blood sword that drips into existence from his palm. The atmosphere surrounding the property is unsettling yet unremarkable.

If Himuro were simply passing by, he would think nothing of an abandoned grocery store in an idyllic seaside town.

Two long boards of wood are nailed, crisscrossed, atop the back door, which Mikoshiba removes with quiet ease. Predictably, the door is locked but Himuro pulls out a hairpin from his pocket a second later before he notices Mikoshiba and Furihata staring at him.

“What?” he asks.

“Why do you have a hairpin in your pocket?” Mikoshiba questions.

“I like to play with Atsushi’s hair,” is Himuro’s reply before he turns his attention to the locked door, ignoring Mikoshiba’s puzzled: “Atsushi?”

As Furihata explains Himuro’s relationship to Mikoshiba, Himuro manages to unlock the door. “Got it,” he exclaims once he hears the soft click of the lock, and opens the door slowly, wary of any creaking hinges.

“I would like to meet that boyfriend of yours,” comments Mikoshiba, grin almost terrifyingly normal. “You know, I see Unit Star as younger siblings of mine.”

Himuro shares another look with Furihata, bemused and a little afraid for their boyfriends’ safety. “Right,” says Furihata, “But let’s focus on that later, okay?”

Mikoshiba hums in response.

They shadow the walls of the abandoned store, feet as silent as a hunters’, and it’s as if Himuro has fallen back into an old skin, a nostalgic memory, a familiar breath. His fingers tingle and wisps of white curl from his fingertips. He breathes, and blinks at his reflection in a piece of glass on the floor. His eyes glow white. Himuro cups his hands underneath his mouth and blows a soft gust of air, the white-gray wisps scatter like wind.

He breathes.

There’s a beat of quiet.

“Underneath us,” he whispers to Mikoshiba and Furihata. “There are people in a room underneath us. I can feel their breaths.”

Furihata tilts his head, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Hm. You’re right—I can hear…one…two, three heartbeats.”

Mikoshiba whistles underneath his breath. “How fancy,” he comments and, a moment later, flames lick his fingers. “All I can do is create daggers of fire—.”

“The tunnel system,” Himuro hears himself say. “How can we get to it?”

Mikoshiba blinks, slightly startled at the abrupt change, before he replies, “Through the office…but it’s destroyed.”

“How do you know?” Furihata challenges, brow furrowed. “Did you see the damage?”

A slight pause. “No…”

“Then, we won’t know,” Himuro says, “unless we see for ourselves.”

Mikoshiba stares at them for a moment before he nods. On the way to the office, they hear no other signs of human life, and goosebumps prickle Himuro’s skin. Something wasn’t right with this abandoned grocer. Something wasn’t right with this _Organization_ , one who had no name and no definite purpose except to instill fear into the lives of innocent townspeople.

There are papers scattered across the small desk in the office, and Furihata sifts through them with a raised brow.

Mikoshiba walks to a bare bookcase and does a complicated knock-sequence on the fourth shelf. Himuro isn’t surprised when the bookcase splits in half, revealing a darkened pathway. Himuro follows Mikoshiba through the dimly lit path, and Furihata slips behind them a few seconds before the bookcase closed.

“Guess it wasn’t destroyed,” Furihata comments, and Himuro snickers at Mikoshiba’s disgruntled glare.

The path is a cramped and twisted evil, and Himuro wonders if there’s an end, if Mikoshiba knows where they’re going. Clutter and debris clutter most of the walkway, and Himuro takes curious note of the dark stains on the walls. Stains that could only mean blood. Furihata gives quiet instructions on the direction of the heartbeats, as Himuro’s power is restricted in such a confined space.

“If Glutton _is_ here,” Himuro murmurs after a moment, “then why hasn’t he broken out yet?”

“I don’t doubt that there are some old associates of Teikō in this…Organization,” Furihata replies, a wry quirk to his lips. “There are ways to block our powers.”

Himuro shudders at the soft reminder, and a phantom heat blisters his forearms.

“Stop.”

Furihata touches a piece of the wall, a distant look in his eyes. Himuro closes his own, breath deepening, and realizes he can hear three people’s shallow breaths.

“There,” Furihata whispers. “They’re in there.”

“How do we get it open?” Himuro asks, eyes scanning the smooth surface. There weren’t any finger marks or darkened patches anywhere. “There aren’t any—?”

He’s interrupted by Mikoshiba grabbing his and Furihata’s wrists. Without pause, they’re pulled through the wall and into a circular, damp room. Like the entrance to Samezuka, the wall feels like a barrier of water, slipping over his skin with a soft whisper.

“Please don’t do that,” Furihata sputters, one hand clasped by his neck. “I—warn me, please, Mikoshiba.”

Mikoshiba grimaces. “Oops. I keep forgetting you guys aren’t—.”

“Big brother?” whispers a young (god, he looks _tiny_ ) boy, brown hair falling in his eyes. Silver streaks line his fringe, and Himuro is momentarily captivated by the silver streaks in his eyes.

His eyes, that have a glassy sheen to them. A gray tint. As if someone had sucked the color from his irises, replacing them with white and gray.

Teikō Academy tortured their students for the sake of their doctrine. They were all introduced to inhumane experimentation and horrors that would make the most war-torn soldier throw up in the bathroom. Himuro can hold his breath for more than twenty minutes, and he can hear people’s breaths three miles away, and he can tell the changes in the air by smell, and he can sense ones’ lungs expand as they breathe, but to get to that point, he went through unspeakable pain. Pain that he will always carry with him until he dies.

The Academy did not care if you were thirteen, or four, or two hours old. To them, you were ripe and ready to be split into pieces and stitched back together in any combination they pleased. They were objects. Tools. To most of Teikō faculty, they weren’t even human.

Furihata steps forward. “Bug?”

Bug—Momotarō, Himuro realizes. Mikoshiba’s _little brother_ —blinks at the wall, head turning to Furihata’s voice. “H-Harbinger?”

 _Ah._ Himuro thinks. _He’s a spirit manipulator._

Spirit Manipulators always, always had most of their sight stripped away from them through a series of painful “updates.” Himuro wasn’t sure why, but it probably had something to do with the aura reading aspect of their abilities.

Mikoshiba blinks. “How do you—?”

“Astral?” an achingly familiar voice murmurs. “H-Harbinger?”

Himuro turns, heart in his throat, and Furihata swivels around so fast he almost trips. Chained right next to Sachiko, alive and whole and eyes so brown they looked red, was Glutton.

*

“Tatsuya?”

Astral blinked and came back to himself. His clothes and hands were stained with blood, and he stared down at the corpse by his feet. A gruesome sight, for most people, but Astral knew it would be an easy cleanup once he got the supplies he needed. For a moment, he was unaware of his surroundings. He assumed he was back in the Academy, dutifully executing another mission, Glutton a few steps away in case something went wrong, but then he blinked, noticed Taiga’s rapidly paling face, and realized where he was.

 _Ah_.

His luck had run out.

He tensed, ready to hear the affirmation to leave, ready for the yells and the tears and the _how could you’s,_ and mentally steeled himself to find someplace to sleep. A few of his contacts in America were still alive, and they operated on a no-questions basis so long as Astral didn’t bring the government at their doorsteps.

He was not prepared, however, for a hug.

Taiga breathed out a raspy breath. “They would have—and you just saved—are you okay?”

“What,” Astral said, blinking slowly, his neck growing damp from Taiga’s tears. “You don’t…hate me?”    

“Why would I?” Taiga said briskly. “You’re my _friend_ , Tatsuya, and you just saved me! And it was really cool, too!” Taiga leaned back then, however, and grimaced when he looked down at a puddle of blood. “Did you have to be so messy, though?”

Astral blinked. “What.”

Naoki touched his shoulder, and Astral looked at him. He and Alex looked inconceivably sad, and Astral understood why.

“Tatsuya,” Naoki murmured, “How did you…?”

A weight lifted off his shoulders. “The people I used to live with weren’t nice,” he explained quietly, wary of saying too much and too little. “They trained me to be their perfect assassin.”

Alex cupped her hand around her mouth. “That…that other boy…?”

Astral’s lips twitched. “He’s probably long gone by now.”

All of his family was, most likely.

Teikō Academy stole your youth and your days. The day you stepped foot on its’ grounds caused time to tick, an imaginary clock that counted the days you had left in your lungs. The longer you spent in its hall, the faster you shed your skin. You became a walking corpse breathing in the air of Teikō, a poisonous oxygen that consumed you before you could even blink.

Astral looked at his feet. It was one thing to take in an abandoned and abused child, but it was another thing entirely to raise someone who breathed death and blood. Astral waited for those poignant words— _I cannot take care of a monster._

Astral was a beautiful lie and, perhaps, the most monstrous out of his entire Unit.

Tears burned the backs of his eyes, but Astral knew everything he loved had a time limit. There were no exceptions.

Naoki touched his shoulder and, in the same breath, pulled Astral into a rib-crushing embrace. Astral gasped, more out of shock than out of pain, and Naoki loosened his grip to a more comfortable hug. “I’m sorry,” the man whispered, voice rough with pain and other emotions Astral didn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole. “I’m so sorry they did that to you.”

Astral blinked, mouth slack against his jaw. Words escaped him, fled from his grasp even as he scrambled for anything that would make sense.

The world turned upside down.

Why weren’t they yelling? Telling him that he was no longer welcome in their presence? Taiga, he understood. Taiga found anything _cool_ , regardless of if it were a skateboard trick or cold-blooded murder to protect him.

Why?

“You didn’t deserve that,” Alex said, lips twisted into a ferocious scowl. “You—You didn’t…”

Astral squirmed his way out of Naoki’s embrace, too uncomfortable with his hulking figure, and blinked down at the corpse with a sigh.

“Ah,” Taiga grimaced. “We’re gonna have to clean that up somehow.”

“It’s okay,” Astral said as he pulled out his phone. “I know someone.”

They stared at him. “Who?” Alex questioned.

There was an amused tilt to Astral’s lips when he said, “An Omen,” and pressed call.

*

Here is the thing about Glutton:

He went out with a bang. He attempted to run away during a mission in Kyoto, and the Academy declared the act a betrayal worthy of death. Twenty security guards were sent to take Glutton to the White Room when Unit Star returned.

Glutton killed all but two of them before he was dragged to his death.

(what Tamer did not say was this:

When Glutton died, Unit Star was punished. Harbinger spent the longest time in the White Room, tortured for three months. Mushroom spent a month in there before he broke, sobbing eternal loyalty to the Academy’s creed. Pitcher disappeared for three days, and he did not speak for half a year.)

*

Once everyone was out of their bindings, there’s a moment of tense quiet as Furihata and Himuro stare at Glutton. Glutton, who, like Himuro, disappeared from Furihata’s life like a flame. Flitting and brief, leaving burning imprints behind that could never be replaced. Glutton stares at Furihata, glassy-eyed and dazed, as if he is seeing the stars for the first time in his life.

“Sachiko,” Himuro breaks the quiet, glancing at the small slip of a thirteen-year-old. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Sachiko smiles brightly despite the situation. “They didn’t hurt me or anything.”

“But why did they take you?” Furihata asks, narrowing his eyes, searching for any injuries. “You don’t—You don’t have anything to do with…this.”

Himuro is an assassin.

He notices things.

He notices the subtle twitches in people’s eyes, the nearly inaudible huffs of laughter people think they hide, the number of callouses on their hands and what it means. Few things slip under Himuro’s radar. He breathes in the rules and techniques Teikō carved into his lungs as if he never left their poisonous embrace, never lived a somewhat normal life in a coastal city halfway across the world.

He sees the miniscule twitch of Sachiko’s lips, the wideness of her smile, the panic curling in her irises, and shares a quick look with Furihata.

“We’ll look into it later,” Furihata says and turns to Glutton. “Do you think you can take us out of here?”

“Of course,” Glutton replies, voice honey warm and pleasant, like coming home from an exhausting day of school. “Everyone grab onto me, please.”

They all do, though Sachiko looks perplexed and alarmed when she grasps his sleeve, and Furihata grimaces. He was never one for teleportation.

“Try not to blink,” Glutton warns, an echo of a laugh in his mouth.

Himuro snorts.

Glutton’s eyes glow a soft amber, and the world twists before their very eyes. It’s over in a second, ice-cold water drenching his veins once his feet is placed on solid ground, and Sachiko wheezes out a breath, falling to her knees from shock.

“What the fuck,” she breathes out, “was that?”

“Teleportation,” Glutton informs her. “Sorry, but…it was our only option—.”

He’s cut off by Himuro and Furihata tackling him to the floor for a hug. Emotions press against Himuro’s lungs as he hears Furihata breathe choked breaths against the crook of Glutton’s neck. “You’re alive, you’re alive,” Furihata rasps. “How? _How? I watched you die?”_

Himuro shuts his eyes, the grief too much to bare.

“Oh, _Kou-chan_ ,” Glutton says, tone mournful, and wraps his arms around Furihata.

They curl around one another, shedding quiet tears into the others’ shoulders, as they remember days of pain and misery, where the only comfort they had was each other and those who were left in Unit Star.

“I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry_. I wanted to go back for you, but Hazuki-san said it was too dangerous. I tried going back too,” Glutton admits after a pause. “I snuck out of his house, and I got halfway to Tokyo before he knocked me out.”

Himuro grips Glutton tighter, like he would disappear within a second. “Is he nice?” Himuro questions. “Is Hazuki-sensei nice?”

He vaguely remembers the man named Hazuki Hisashi.

The man was the Captain of their Unit, Unit Star, in the Academy for three years, before he disappeared the day Glutton was sentenced to death. He’d rose in the ranks of Teikō and was assigned to be the overseer of Furihata’s Unit when he started his second year in the Elementary Department of the Academy. The man was charismatic and funny, and naïve in the way he believed in the Academy’s doctrine. Himuro knows the man was oblivious to the way the Academy treated their students until Unit Star’s mission in Alaska, where he understood everything that was sacrificed for the sake of victory.

 “Yeah,” Glutton says, drying his eyes with the palm of his hands. “He has a wife,” he adds, brightening, “and two daughters! They’re older than me, but they’re nice, a little overwhelming when they want to dress me up as a doll,” he finishes, pouting.

Furihata smiles. “That’s wonderful, Glutton!”

Glutton pauses, hands curled in Furihata’s shirt, and whispers, “My name is Nagisa, now, Kou-chan. Hazuki Nagisa.”

“Okay,” Furihata says, and then smiles, “Nice to see you again, Nagisa.”

Nagisa’s eyes fill with tears, and the smaller teen throws his arms around Furihata. It sets him off again, and they’re a mess of tears and long limbs clutching one another like lifelines.

“I’m sorry,” Nagisa almost wails, voice soft like a dying flame. “I couldn’t – I wanted to come back, but Hazuki—.”

“I’ll kill him,” Furihata growls. _“I’ll fucking kill him.”_

Nagisa snorts, bitter. “He won’t stop you if you try.”

“Um…” comes the voice from the doorway. “Who are you and why are you in my house?”

Nagisa’s head pops up with a beam. “Haru-chan! We’re using your house as a safe place, okay?”

Haru, the boy from earlier, blinks, nonplussed. He’s wearing an apron. “Ah,” he says, utterly bored with the conversation already. “Would you like some mackerel, Nagisa?”

“Sure!”

 “Furihata Kōki,” Furihata whispers and, when Nagisa blinks at him, repeats, “My name is Furihata Kōki.”

“Himuro Tatsuya,” Himuro says.

Nagisa smiles wetly. “It’s nice to meet you both, well, again.”

There are many words Himuro yearns to say, wants to pull out of his thoughts and verbalize, but his throat is clogged with emotion, so he hugs Nagisa tighter. Nagisa hugs him back.

“Look at us,” Himuro says, “we’re such saps.”

“We _are_ , Tatsu-chan,” Nagisa snickers, “We’re acting like old men!”

They collapse in a fit of laughter. During their reunion, Mikoshiba turns the TV on, and the sports channel shows a recap of the last swim meet, going over the winning scores, and Nagisa jumps, pointing at the screen.

“Oh, oh, I’m on the swim team,” he grins, hands flailing at the TV. “That’s _my team_! Iwatobi High School! Ooh, ooh, Kou-chan, Tatsu-chan, since you already met Haru-chan, and Mako-chan, and Rei-chan, you have to meet Gou-chan, and Rin-chan, and—and the Samezuka boys, though they’re our enemy team, so don’t fraternize with them, okay?”

Himuro blinks.

Furihata smiles.

If there was one thing the Academy couldn’t take from him, it was Nagisa’s love for water.

“Don’t worry,” Furihata says, laughing, “I won’t, ah, fraternize with anyone.”

Nagisa smiles and laughs. “So,” the blond says when they’ve calmed down, “how’s your team like, Kou-chan? Any cute boys in Seirin?”

“N-Nagisa!”

“What?” Nagisa grins, eyes wicked and mischievous. “It’s a serious question, Kou-chan! I need to know if the boys of Seirin are worthy of your sweet ass—ow, ow, Kou-chan—stop trying to _smother me_! _Kou-chan!”_

Furihata, whose face is in impossible shades of red, removes the cushion from Nagisa’s face, feeling a little guilty. Nagisa huffs, pouting at the treatment.

“So mean,” he whines.

Himuro cackles. “Oh, there’s a cute boy, alright.”

“Really?” Nagisa grins widely.

Furihata sputters, face red. “H-Himuro has a boyfriend!”

Nagisa is utterly delighted. “Oho?”

“My relationship is old news,” Himuro says smoothly, eyes glinting, “But, Furi-chan, however…”

Nagisa hums, a glint in his eyes that makes Himuro shiver.

A toothpaste commercial blares on the high school sports channel, so they start trading stories of their teammates. Nagisa learns of the way Kagami Taiga can’t sleep before a game, of the kind duo who pulled Furihata into their friendship without hesitation, and he learns of the antics Murasakibara gets into when he’s low on sugar, or when he spots his favorite store having a sale. Himuro now knows that Nanase Haruka will strip and jump into any body of water, regardless of if said body of water is a fountain in the middle of the park.

 “Mako-chan was _so mad!”_ Nagisa laughs at the memory, tears clinging to the edges of his eyes. “Haru-chan almost got arrested for indecency—Rei-chan was so scandalized!”

Nagisa then regales them with tales of the Iwatobi Swim Club. He learns how they began, their struggle with finding new members, their friendly (and, at some moments, not-so-friendly) rivalry with Samezuka Academy’s swim team, and then he’s told of the many ups-and-downs they experienced to get to where they are now.

 “I’m gonna miss them,” Nagisa says. “Haru-chan and Mako-chan, that is. They’re going to school in Tokyo soon, though, so that means I get to come visit you and them both now!”

Nagisa begins to tell him snippets of his life in the Hazuki household, gleefully explaining a family reunion dinner where his sister had thrown a pie at their aunts’ face when the channel starts to show coverage of a volleyball tournament. Nagisa stutters to a stop at the sight.

Quiet floats in the air, and Himuro glances at the time. It’s almost midnight.

“I miss him,” Nagisa whispers. “Sun.”

Furihata looks at the floor. Something grips Himuro’s heart.

“Yeah,” he responds after he grasps his bearings. “I…I miss him, too.”

Nagisa then looks to the amused occupants of the room. “Oh, yeah. I’m Nagisa, though you already know that.”

“I’m Momotarō,” Momotarō says by his brother’s side. “But call me Momo!”

“I’m Sachiko,” says Sachiko, quiet at the sight of their reunion.

Sometimes, Himuro forgets that he isn’t normal. His life and his past wasn’t normal. He has done things, seen things, that fall out of the typical spectrum of what normal people have experienced. He keeps forgetting that for all her bravado and jokes, Sachiko is a normal thirteen-year-old girl.

(they almost got her killed.)

Later, when they’re crowded around Haru’s table with plates of mackerel and cups of tea, Mikoshiba clears his throat. “You should stay the night,” he says, playing with his teabag. “The Organization is still out there, and they probably have Sunrise Inn under scrutiny. I’ll contact Kisumi about it, though, so he can stay alert from any surprise attacks.”

“The Organization…” Furihata speaks, head tilted. “What is it’s purpose, exactly?”

Mikoshiba sighs. “We don’t know, exactly. We know that they aim to research, ah, the earth’s aesthetic, naturally occurring yet paranormal phenomena—like Samezuka. And, of course, they’re government funded. That’s the cover, but, well, let’s just say that they are very interested in Teikō’s philosophy.”

Himuro snorts. “Of course, they are.”

Sachiko frowns. “Are we staying here? Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” Nagisa responds. “And tomorrow, we can go sightseeing!”

Himuro shares an exasperated but fond look with Furihata as Nagisa begins enthusiastically describing the various spots to see in Iwatobi and Samezuka. The rest of the night is spent with laughter, and memories, and Nagisa going over his “adventures” as a member of the Iwatobi Swim Club. Himuro spends most of it in a dazed, sharp disbelief over seeing Nagisa alive, hearing his voice and his laugh.

Himuro steeled himself to find Glutton, but as a corpse instead of a high school swimmer.

Furihata grips his hand.

“We’re okay,” he says, though Himuro isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince. “We’re…We’re gonna be okay.”

Nagisa catches their eye, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't be afraid to ask me to write any one-shot/drabble etc., or explain things if you have a question! i also have a lot of drabbles/one-shots that didn't make it into this story and My Blood is Poison, so I'm probably going to put them all in here. and there's also the things i've posted on my tumblr that i wanna transfer here, too. but let me know if you guys are interested in that tho!
> 
> i used to be dreamingunderthetstars on AO3 and @sleepykenmas on tumblr. Now, I am dreamtowns on AO3 and @sleepydekus on tumblr!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Kuroko no Basuke | The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays. It belongs to its’ mangaka, Fujimaki Tadatoshi. This is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Please enjoy!! Sorry for any errors!

Even after the harrowing days spent at the seaside town, Iwatobi (and Samezuka) is still as breathtaking as ever when Himuro wakes. After rousing everyone with the scent of food, Haru (Nanase Haruka, Himuro discovered after a question, though he preferred to be called Haru) serves a breakfast of hot tea and mackerel. Mikoshiba and Momotarō were gone, leaving Haru’s home the night before to relay news of their success to Samezuka (most importantly, to the twins. Himuro knows this quiet town isn’t ready for the likes of Akashi Seijūrō when he’s angry).

Makoto ( _Tachibana Makoto, the son of the Samezuka mayors_ ) eats his with a dismayed look on his face. “Haru, can you please eat something besides mackerel and rice?”

Picking up another piece, Haru says, slightly heated yet still deadpan, “No.”

Nagisa snorts.

Makoto swallows another piece of mackerel, a hint of a pout on his lips.

The rest of breakfast is a quiet affair. Although Sachiko appears well-rested and happy, Himuro can see traces of yesterday swirling in her eyes. Himuro doesn’t blame her. She signed up for a lighthearted reunion, and she got kidnapped by a strange organization in the same morning. Himuro doesn’t understand why they wanted her, nor what that note had said, or, even, what those documents proposed.

He thinks he would be fine living in ignorance.

“We’re going sightseeing,” Nagisa declares, slamming his bowl down on the table, eyes bright like the sun. Furihata attempts to fall back asleep. Himuro’s heart aches in his throat. God, he missed his little brothers. He hadn’t known it was possible to miss someone so much. “No excuses!” Nagisa points at Furihata. “You have to see all the wonders of Iwatobi and Samezuka.”

Sachiko hops in her seat, dark echoes fading. “Ooh, I’d love to go sightseeing!”

“I’ve seen enough of this town,” Furihata grumbles into rice.

Nagisa and Sachiko turn in his direction, puppy dog eyes to the max, and chorus: “Please?”

Furihata pinches the bridge of his nose.

After breakfast, they go sightseeing.

Himuro laughs at the disgruntled look on Furihata’s face. Nagisa shows them all of Iwatobi’s corners and local hotspots. Makoto holds a camera, giving quiet suggestions for poses when Nagisa calls for a photo, and Haru watches the sea, a look of yearning crossing his eyes. “Sometimes,” Makoto said when he caught Himuro looking at Haru, “I feel like Haru-chan should’ve been born in Samezuka instead.”

As Sachiko and Nagisa take pictures, Himuro glances at Furihata. “Can you believe it’s only been, like, two days?” he says.

Furihata sighs. “It feels like it’s been a whole year.”

Himuro opens his mouth, but his words are cut off by Haru growing rigid. Makoto notices, as well, and says, worried, “Haru?”

Haru looks off into the distance, eyes clouded. “He’s near.”

Himuro shares a look with Furihata.

“Who?” Himuro asks.

“Rin,” Makoto responds, biting his bottom lip. “Haru-chan and Rin…it’s a little complicated.”

Furihata narrows his eyes.

“Rin-chan and Haru-chan can sense one another.” Nagisa comes up to Himuro’s elbow, expression solemn. “They weren’t in the Academy, but they say they’ve always been like that.”

“Sense one another?” Himuro echoes with a raised brow.

Nagisa nods. “They have an uncanny ability to, like, always know where the other is whenever they get to a certain distance.”

“Odd,” Furihata murmurs.

“It is,” Nagisa says with a quiet laugh. “But, well, Samezuka is an underwater town, so I just assumed it fell into the realm of normalcy here.”

Himuro tilts his head. “And does it?”

“For the sake of my sanity, it does,” Nagisa replies, eyes distant and dark. “I don’t know what’d I would do if the Academy touched them.”

“We have to leave soon,” Himuro says with a heavy sigh, legs already tense at the thought of the long drive. “If we wanna get home at a decent time and beat t—.”

The sharp intake of breath makes him pause, and he turns.

“Gou-chan,” Nagisa beams. “Have you met Himu—.”

“I know who he is,” Starlight ( _Gou Gou Gou_ ) whispers, crimson red hair shining underneath the early morning sun, and then she smiles, hesitant and soft, before she drags Himuro into a gripping hug. The sweet moment is ruined by Gou punching his shoulder. “Asshole,” she hisses through her smile. “You made me, Sousuke, _and_ Nitori think you died!”

“Sorry,” Himuro responds, rubbing his shoulder. “I had no choice.”

Gou huffs, and then bites her lip. “I know…I’m happy you’re alive, though.”

Himuro tries to swallow. “Me too.”

“Gou,” Haru tilts his head. “You went to Teikō?”

“Yup,” Gou responds with a nod. “Been there since…hmm…the second grade of elementary school, I think?”

Haru’s eyebrows furrow together. “Rin?”

Gou shakes her head. “Rin never attended the Academy, remember? He went to Iwatobi—and then, to Australia.”

Furihata blinks. “He went to school in Australia?”

“Yeah,” Gou replies. “To get stronger in swimming.” Then, after a pause: “He’s training for the Olympics.”

Himuro raises his eyebrows. “Impressive.”

“Oh?” A taller boy with similar features walks up to Gou. Haru’s eyes track his movements, head tilted. “This that friend you talked about once?”

“Yeah,” Gou says, tone slightly wistful. “Astral.”

“Himuro Tatsuya,” Himuro greets, and then points to Furihata. “That’s Furihata Kōki.”

Furihata waves.

The boy nods. “Matsuoka Rin…just call me Rin.” He pauses, then, and turns his head slightly in Haru’s direction before he blinks and says, “You had a run-in with Mirai, then?”

Furihata straightens, eyes narrowed dangerously. “How do you know that?”

Rin raises his palms. “Haru told me.”

Furihata relaxes, and then rubs the back of his neck. “S-Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Rin replies, and then looks in Haru’s direction. “Sorry your trip was cut short, though.”

“It’s fine,” Himuro says, eyes finding its’ way to Nagisa, who’s discussing the best type of sweater for winter with Sachiko. “We got what we came looking for.”

“Give me your phone,” Gou then demands, hand held out with impatience. “We’re swapping phone numbers.”

“Ooh.” Nagisa bounces forward. “Here’s my number!”

For a minute or two, there’s quiet as they all exchange contact information. “If you don’t keep in touch, I’ll hunt you down,” Gou threatens once she’s put her contact info into his phone.

“Yes, ma’am,” Himuro says, and she snorts.

“Group chat, group chat, group chat,” Nagisa chants, and a pained look crosses over Furihata’s face at the thought of another group chat.

Himuro chokes on his laugh.

*

The trip back to Tokyo seems shorter, and soon, Himuro pulls into Furihata’s and Sachiko’s driveway.

“Time to face to music,” Sachiko mumbles, reaching for her bag.

Masayuki stands on the porch, arms crossed over his chest. His expression is unreadable, and Furihata sighs. When Sachiko slips out of the car, Himuro pats Furihata’s hand.

“It’ll be fine,” Himuro tells him. “Furi-chan, he’s not going to give you up because of this—.”

“His only daughter almost died because of me,” Furihata interrupts him, almost inaudible. “That Organization…they would have killed her. Or they would’ve harmed her because she’s normal. She isn’t—Sachiko isn’t like us, Himuro—.”

Himuro squeezes Furihata’s hand. “It’s gonna be okay, but you need to breathe first.”

Furihata exhales, sliding down the chair until only wisps of his hair are visible from the window. “Things were much simpler in the Academy.”

Himuro laughs, sharp and caustic. “You’re not wrong.”

Silence falls between them, comfortable and sweet, until Furihata breathes out, shakily, “He’s alive. Oh my god, Himuro— _he’s alive.”_

Himuro makes a choked noise in the back of his throat. “Y-Yeah.”

“He made a group chat,” Furihata groans.

Himuro’s lips twitch. “You’ll live.”

“Barely,” Furihata responds before he sits upright and inhales. “Well. Like Sachiko said, it’s time to face the music.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Himuro calls as Furihata exits the car. “If he does anything, though, I’ll kill him.”

Furihata rolls his eyes. “See you later, Himuro.”

“Bye, Furi-chan!”

When he pulls up to Murasakibara’s house, he hasn’t even taken a step inside the house before his name is called. “Muro-chin,” Murasakibara says from the hallway, content. “You’re back.”

Himuro smiles. “I am.”

“How was it?” Murasakibara asks before holding out the chip back in his hands. “Hungry?”

Himuro’s stomach growls, and Murasakibara laughs quietly. Himuro could listen to that laugh for eternity, if he could. He would bottle it for a rainy day.

“Anyway, it went well,” Himuro replies. “We met some…interesting characters.”

“Oh?” Murasakibara chews slowly. “Like what?”

 _Like a company that’s like Teikō but isn’t,_ Himuro says to himself but, to Atsushi, he says, in a nonchalant tone, “Just an underwater village.”

Murasakibara blinks. “What?”

Himuro laughs.

He spends the rest of the day regaling Murasakibara with his experiences at Iwatobi, sans the kidnapping and rescue, but finds himself falling asleep when he talks about Nagisa’s hilarious quips about his teammates, and Murasakibara pokes his cheek.

“Muro-chin should go to bed,” Murasakibara tells him quietly. “It’s getting late, anyway.”

Himuro blinks at the time. It’s almost nine at night. A yawn threatens to break his jaw when he stands. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m never driving eight hours again.”

Murasakibara snorts.

*

The incoming text startles him out of his sleep.

_Come into the kitchen._

It’s Red Eye.

Himuro’s tempted to tell her to fuck off, but he slips out of bed a second later. Murasakibara rouses slightly from the lack of warmth in his arms.

“Muro-chin?”

“Bathroom,” Himuro responds, and Murasakibara hums, head falling back against the pillow.

He tiptoes down to the kitchen and finds Red Eye perched atop a counter, scrolling through his phone with a perpetually bored expression. Her sandy blonde hair is pulled into a low bun, and she’s wearing a school uniform, as if she simply stopped by on her way to clas.

“What are you doing here?” Himuro asks.

Red Eye smiles at him. “It’s good to see you too, Astral.”

“Red Eye,” Himuro says, moving closer. “Why’d you break into my boyfriends’ house? Who, might I add, is the strongest member of Unit Miracle?”

 “I’ve been lying to you about some things, and I figured I’d come clean,” Red Eye says, nonchalantly, as if there is nothing wrong with the fact that she had broken into Murasakibara’s house at three in the morning.

Himuro arches an eyebrow. “And you just decided to become a Good Samaritan?”

Red Eye pouts. “I’ve always been a Good Samaritan, Astral.”

Himuro sighs and checks the time. They have three more minutes before Murasakibara realizes he did not go to the bathroom. “Well? What is it?”

Red Eye straightens, fixing her jaw, and something cold settles in the pit of Himuro’s stomach. The last time Red Eye looked at him like that, well…the news wasn’t good.

(the last time Red Eye sought him out in person, Vision had died. “I’m so sorry,” she had said as Himuro’s tears wet her shoulder, arms curled around him. “I was too late—I couldn’t—I’m so sorry.”)

“Red Eye?” Himuro raises an eyebrow, the pause too anxiety-inducting. “What—?”

“It’s about Sun.”

Himuro sits down. Standing is too dangerous for this conversation. “Sun has been dead for years now, Red Eye,” he explains quietly. “You know that. _You attended his funeral.”_

Red Eye takes a breath and smiles. It’s small, and fragile. It almost makes Himuro want to wrap her in a blanket and tuck her away from harm. Assassin or not, Red Eye is barely sixteen. She’s a kid.

(all of them are just kids).

 “Did you know,” Red Eye begins, “that there are some Sight Manipulators who can create life-like illusions?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your reviews and your kudos', and your overall support!!! I wouldn't have completed this without all of you!! While I know you'd like the next installment ASAP, I'm gonna take a little creative break from this series as I'm feeling a bit drained. 
> 
> I'll be posting short ficlets and drabbles in Reign of Ruin, of course, so don't be afraid to request anything you'd like to see! The only thing I won't write at the moment is HQ!! as i don't want to potentially spoil anything :') (you can still request stuff from that anime, though, i just won't post it until the next installment is posted). I will also be posting my backstory of Nagisa and how he got to Iwatobi/Samezuka pretty soon! 
> 
> Once again, thank you so much!!! 
> 
> Don't be afraid to message me on my tumbler @sleepydekus either!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed it!! Don't forget you can always come speak to me on my tumblr @sleepykenmas if you have any ideas/prompts/etc about this AU that you'd like to share!! I love screaming about this!
> 
> Also, I'd love to thank my lovely beta, five_lanterns, for supporting me and being an amazing person!!
> 
> UPDATE 8/24: i used to be dreamingunderthetstars on AO3 and @sleepykenmas on tumblr. Now, I am dreamtowns on AO3 and @sleepydekus on tumblr!


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